Encore for Biggles
by Biggles Mad
Summary: A story of the comrades' later years in the SAP. They are reunited with King's Kittens, meet Worrals, Frecks, Bill and Steeley for the first time, and catch up with Marcel, Tug, Angus, Wilks, von Stalhein and von Zoyton. By Another Author.
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

**The Characters of Captain W. E. Johns**

1.** The Biggles Books**

The series of 96 volumes (98 if one includes the two recent limited editions), plus the story in _Comrades in Arms_, has four regular heroes, as follows:

Bigglesworth, James (BIGGLES) begins as a First World War Fighter pilot flying a Sopwith Camel. Between the wars he becomes an itinerant adventurer in many exotic locations before being recalled to service as a Squadron Leader during the Second World War. The post-war books record his exploits in the Special Air Police, beginning as Sergeant but quickly being promoted toDetective Air Inspector in _Another Job for Biggles_. Though officially a policeman, many of his assignments are more concerned with counter espionage and thwarting various Iron Curtain plots in many different areas of the world. Thus the exotic locations continue though, in time, an increasing number of his adventures are set on the home front.

Hebblethwaite (GINGER), whose first name is never divulged, is a homeless youth of fifteen or sixteen when Biggles comes across him in_ The Black Peril_, from which point he is taken permanently under Biggles' wing. As the youngest member of the team, especially in the adventures between the wars, he is the character schoolboy readers would be most likely to relate to.

Lacey, The Honourable Algernon (ALGY) is Biggles' cousin who first appears in 'The Boob', one of the stories in the first Biggles book,_ The Camels are Coming_, and is thus present for the whole of the series. He becomes Biggles' second in command during the Second World War tales and for the Air Police stories after.

Lissie, Lord Bertie (BERTIE) makes his bow in _Spitfire Parade _but he is just another member of the squadron until he plays a major role in _Biggles Fails to Return_. He becomes a regular member of the team in the post-war adventures, where his 'silly ass' pose often deceives the opposition.

Some other characters, who appear from time to time and have a role in the story that follows, are mentioned below.

AIR COMMODORE RAYMOND is an intelligence officer in the First and Second World War books and between the conflicts is Colonel Raymond of Scotland Yard, in which capacity he has more to do with Steeley Delaroy than with Biggles. On his return to police duty as an assistant-commissioner, he is instrumental in setting up the Air Police and assigning Biggles most of his missions. He performs a similar role in many of the Worrals books.

ANGUS MACKAIL is one of Biggles' Flight Commanders in the Second World War books, also making a brief appearance in _Short Sorties_. He is badly wounded in _Biggles in the Orient_ but recovers to fall a victim to a crooked scheme in South America after the war from which he has to be rescued in _Biggles Takes a Holiday._

EDDIE ROSS is a Policeman in the United States who works with Biggles in _Biggles' Combined Operation_ and _Biggles and the Poor Rich Boy_.

INSPECTOR GASKIN often appears in Biggles' English adventures, notably in _Biggles on the Home Front_,

MAJOR CHARLES is a key figure in British Intelligence who appears briefly in several of the books from _The Camels are Coming_ through to the Air Detective adventures such as _Biggles Follows On_.

MARCEL BRISSAC introduces himself as 'the French Air Police' in _Biggles Works it Out_ and combines with Biggles in many stories thereafter, especially _Biggles Cuts it Fine, Biggles and the Pirate Treasure, Biggles Foreign Legionnaire, Biggles' Chinese Puzzle, Biggles Takes Charge, Biggles on Mystery Island, Biggles' Combined Operation_ and_ Biggles and the Noble Lord._

MARIE JANIS is the woman Biggles falls in love with in 'Affaire de Coeur', from _The Camels are Coming_, when he believes her to be French. In fact she is a German spy, intent on the destruction of the British Air Base but British Intelligence, aware of the plot, ensures that it is her farmhouse that is bombed instead. Because she loves Biggles, though, she goes to the air base to try to lure him away and, in trying to save him, succeeds in saving herself. In _Biggles Looks Back_, at von Stalhein's instigation, Biggles rescues her from Czechoslovakia and she lives quietly in Hampshire from then on.

SMYTH is Biggles' flight-sergeant, a master mechanic, in the First World War tales and then becomes a regular member of the team for the first three inter-war books, _Biggles Flies Again, The Cruise of the Condor _and_ The Black Peril_, after which he gives way to Ginger. He continues his aircraft maintenance role in such stories as _Biggles & Co_ and _Biggles Goes to War _and resumes his flight-sergeant duties, during the Second World War. In the post-war stories there are references to him continuing this role, together with the occasional appearance such as in _Biggles Works it Out_, where, despite their long association, they continue to address each other formally as "Flight-Sergeant' and 'Sir.'

TUG Carrington is one of Biggles' Second World War pilots, who reinforces the regular team in _Biggles Hunts Big Game_.

Hauptmann ERICH von STALHEIN is Biggles' most frequent adversary. He is first encountered in the First World War story,_ Biggles Flies East_, resumes hostilities between the wars in _Biggles & Co._ and _Biggles Secret Agent_ and is in opposition again in the Second World War stories, _Biggles in the Baltic_, _Biggles Defies the Swastika _and_ Biggles Sees it Through_. In the post-war era he confronts Biggles again in _Biggles Takes a Holiday_ and then, with increasing frequency, in _Biggles Gets His Men, Biggles Works it Out, Biggles Follows On, Biggles in the Blue, Biggles Foreign Legionnaire, Biggles in Australia, No Rest For Biggles _and_ Biggles Takes Charge_. In these later books he is often working for Iron Curtain masters who, tired of his constant failures against Biggles, imprison him on Sakhalin Island, from which he is rescued in _Biggles Buries the Hatchet_. Thereafter he becomes an unlikely ally, appearing briefly in _Biggles in Mexico_ and _Biggles Takes a Hand_, and playing a major role in the rescue of Marie Janis in _Biggles Looks Back_.

Hauptmann von ZOYTON is a German Second World War fighter ace who is Biggles' main adversary in _Biggles Sweeps the Desert_, where he responds in kind to a chivalrous gesture by Biggles. He re-appears as pilot to a gang of ruthless robbers in _Sergeant Bigglesworth CID._ but, although he escapes from custody at the end, presumably to be on hand for further adventures if required, he is not seen again.

WILKS (Captain, Squadron Leader then Group Captain Wilkinson) acts as Biggles' friendly rival in the First World War stories and _Spitfire Parade_. Between the wars, Biggles comes to his aid in _Biggles Flies North_ and Wilks, in turn, offers valuable assistance in the first post-war adventure, _Sergeant Bigglesworth CID. _He also appears in the First World War story, 'The Hare and the Tortoise,' the final tale in _Biggles Takes the Case_.

**2. The Worrals Books**

The series ran to 11 books (six wartime, 5 post-war), a story in _Comrades in Arms_ and two short stories, recently published in the collection _Winged Justice and Other Stories_.

BILL ASHTON is a fighter pilot in the Second World War, who is also Worrals' boyfriend in her early adventures, _Worrals of the WAAF, Worrals Flies Again, Worrals Carries On _and_ Worrals on the Warpath. _When he runs into danger in South Africa after the war, Worrals has to rescue him in _Worrals in the Wilds_ but he is absent from the four subsequent adventures.

Lovell, Betty (FRECKS) is Worrals' close friend and ally in all her adventures.

Worralson, Joan (WORRALS) is an intrepid airwoman in the Second World War who proves equally effective in five post-war adventures. She regularly complains about male patronising and keenly asserts female equality wherever it seems necessary.

**3. The Gimlet Books** The series ran to ten volumes (two wartime, eight post-war) plus a story in _Comrades in Arms_. The team also helps Biggles in _Biggles Follows On_. 

Ashton, Captain the Honourable Frederick (Freddie) Ashton is a British agent working in France who helps Gimlet's team to return to England in _King of the Commandos _and appears on home soil in _Gimlet Mops Up_.

Collson, Corporal Albert Edward (COPPER) is an ex-policeman, hence his nickname, and a former heavyweight boxing champion, an accomplishment that is of great value in the stories. His Cockney origins are evident from his speech.

King, Captain Lorrington DSO, M.C. and Bar (GIMLET) is the leader of the commando group known as 'King's Kittens.' He is a stickler for discipline and a little more ruthless than Biggles at times. His home is Lorrington Castle in Devon but, in _Gimlet Comes Home_, he also inherits property in Scotland.

Peters, Nigel Norman (CUB) is discovered by the commandos in _King of the Commandos_ as a fifteen year old helping the French Resistance, having been stranded after trying to find his father on the beaches at Dunkirk. As the youngest member of the team he fulfils much the same kind of role as Ginger does for the Biggles books. As such he frequently plays the major role in the stories, particularly in _Gimlet's Oriental Quest _and_ Gimlet Lends a Hand._

Troublay, Private (TRAPPER) is a French Canadian who spent many years as a trapper and prospector in the wilds of Canada, hence his nickname. As a result of this and the many contacts he had with native Canadians, he is an expert at following tracks and also with an assortment of weapons, particularly a bow and arrow.

**4. The Steeley Books**

Delaroy, Deeley Montfort (STEELEY) is so disgusted at the bad treatment demobbed servicemen receive at the end of the First World War that he becomes a modern-day Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to help the poor. He is seen in this role in the first of the series, _Sky High_, but becomes an ally of the police in _Murder by Air_ and _The Murder at Castle Deeping_. In the other books in the series, he rescues his future wife, Virginia Marven, from ruthless gangsters in _Steeley Flies Again_ and helps to restore a deposed president in South America in _Wings of Romance_. The Five adventures are narrated by his old war-time comrade, Captain Eric (Tubby) Wilde and all but the fourth, _The Murder at Castle Deeping_, also contain a younger friend, Brian Ballantyne, an up-and-coming reporter. Steeley and Tubby also appeared in two novellas ('The Missing Page' and 'Nazis in the New Forest') but these were not published in book form till _Steeley and the Missing Page & Other Stories_ in 2000.


	2. Eventful Journeys

**Chapter One: Eventful Journeys**

When Air Commodore Raymond retired, he held a party for many of those he had associations with, including Air Inspector Bigglesworth, commonly known as Biggles. That much was known at the time. That there was more to it has often been suspected but only with the release of papers under the Thirty-Year Rule has it been possible to piece together what the real purpose of the get-together was and what it led to.

'If it's only a party,' mused Ginger Hebblethwaite as Biggles drove through long leafy Berkshire lanes, 'why all the precautions?'

'Search me,' said Biggles, 'but the chief must have a reason – you can be sure of that.'

Rain, which had been threatening for some time, now sluiced down. Biggles pulled into a lay-by, stopped and lit a cigarette.

'Gives us a chance to see if there's anyone on our tail,' he remarked.

'Smoking's bad for your health, they say,' Ginger reminded.

Biggles gave a wry smile.

'My whole career's been bad for my health,' he said. 'But for an incredible run of luck, I wouldn't be here and still in one piece.'

A car swished past, spraying surface water to both sides of the road.

'Just like ours,' noted Ginger. 'Same model, same colour – might have been a twin.'

'In a hurry, whoever he is. Too fast for the conditions, I'd say.'

'All this cloak and dagger stuff,' Ginger continued, returning to his initial comment. 'Bertie goes up to Scotland for a shooting holiday with Gimlet King so they can fly all the way down again; Algy's supposedly on an investigation in Wales – why couldn't we all just travel together?'

'We'll find out when we get there,' said Biggles, philosophically.

'Hello, there's thunder,' said Ginger as a sudden boom dwarfed the pounding rain for a second. 'Must be close but I didn't see any lightning.'

'I'm not sure that was thunder,' said Biggles, narrowing his eyes and stubbing out his cigarette. 'Sounded too sharp for that. Let's go and see.'

He drove with care, peering at the road during the brief intervals of vision that the windscreen wipers allowed him, but it was not long before he stopped again. There, battered in the foliage, lay the car that had so recently passed them; there were also signs of debris on the road itself. Ginger rushed over to the other vehicle while Biggles radioed for an ambulance and the police. Then, grabbing his anorak, he made for the shattered fragments on the highway.

'What is it?' Ginger asked, coming over.

'Unless I miss my guess,' said Biggles, 'these are the remnants of a bomb. Keep alert. Those who planted this may still be around. How are they?' he added, indicating the other car.

'In a bad way, I'd say. Both unconscious.'

Cautiously Biggles moved further along the road.

'Hello,' he said, 'what have we here? Skid marks and a yellow streak on this tree. Looks as if someone took off in a devil of a hurry and grazed the trunk on their way out.'

'The ones who planted the bomb?'

'Who else? These marks are recent. And the road's only been wet for less than half-an-hour. Let's see if we can find where it started from.'

Not far away they came upon an alcove in the trees, a gap large enough for a car and, indeed, there were signs that one had been there. A ragged path led off towards the area of the bomb and, skirting this slightly, Biggles noted footprints and some sodden cigarette butts.

The rain had relented by the time the ambulance arrived. A police car came too and Biggles showed his warrant card and shared his suspicions.

'I think I've got the picture,' Biggles told Ginger when they were back in the car awaiting CID. 'The bomb was concealed by leaves and detonated from behind those trees when the car appeared. What was planned, presumably, was that it should go off right underneath it. The driving rain and the speed the car was going meant they didn't identify it for a crucial second so the detonation didn't occur until it had passed, blowing it off the road but not destroying it.'

'Why them, though? Who are they?'

'No idea – but what makes you so certain they were the target?'

'What do you mean?'

'You said yourself their car was the twin of ours. And we were ahead of them till we stopped for the rain.'

Ginger looked at him grimly.

'You think that was meant for us.'

Biggles nodded. 'And, but for that downpour, it might have got us, too. Well, it looks as if you have your answer.'

'What to?'

'Why we were warned to be so careful. Raymond must have suspected something like this could happen.'

The CID. inspector arrived at this moment.

'Detective-Inspector Jones,' he said, shaking hands. 'I've heard of you, Inspector Bigglesworth. Air crime's your beat, isn't it?'

Biggles recounted what he had discovered.

'You ought to pick up quite a bit checking behind those bushes there,' he concluded.

'We've put out a general alert about the car,' Jones reported. 'A dent on the nearside and the colour should give us a chance of locating it.'

'We'll be waffling along,' said Biggles, 'but I'll be glad to know what you find,'

As they drove into Oxfordshire, the rain returned with full vigour. They made a number of detours and sudden stops as they progressed but saw no-one following them.

At length they turned into a semi-circular driveway by two huge iron gates. They drove in along a tree-lined avenue, showing their warrant cards to an alert attendant, and passed many parked cars before stopping at the back of an enormous mansion, almost a palace.

'Don't tell me Raymond lives here,' Ginger gasped.

'I won't. This is one of our great stately homes and the venue for the party – if that's really what it is.'

The door opened before they knocked and they were shown into a large room. Pictures of former earls adorned the walls and soft settees nestled beneath them as if awaiting occupancy. The familiar figure of the Air Commodore rose from an armchair to greet them. Behind him a wood fire blazed cheerily, keeping at bay the damp autumnal chill.

'Hello Bigglesworth, Hebblethwaite,' he said, shaking hands. 'Welcome!'

'Thank you, sir,' Biggles returned. 'It so happens that we've had a reception of sorts already.'

They sat down and related the incident on the road. The Air Commodore listened carefully.

'Well, now we know what we're up against,' he said when Biggles had finished, 'though I didn't expect it to go this far so soon. Perhaps you had better ring that detective you met. I'll show you where the phone is.'

Biggles spoke briefly then rang off.

'Jones is still locating the car,' he reported. 'They've found nothing about the pair that could be called exceptional, except that the driver has a string of speeding offences.'

'Hardly a motive for murder,' Raymond considered. 'It makes it more likely that you were the target.'

'But how would they have known that I would go on that route? If I were followed, they wouldn't have had time to arrange anything.'

'Once you were on the road, it would be reasonable to suppose you'd carry on to the end. There aren't any significant turnings off it. The car you found traces of may have come from the other direction – probably did if you don't recall it passing you.'

'Then how could they have traced our movements so clearly?'

The Air Commodore smiled sadly.

'Really, Bigglesworth,' he answered, 'you're the last person who should need to ask that.'

'You mean . . .'

'Helicopter – we had a report of one in the area. It was able to pinpoint your progress.'

'This sounds like quite an elaborate operation,' said Biggles, accepting a cigarette.

'They clearly perceive you as a danger. Fortunately the rain should have obscured visibility enough to prevent them noting your progress after. With luck they may think they've been successful and you're now out of the way.'

'Who are they?' queried Ginger.

'Wait till the others are here. I'll brief you all together.'

New arrivals were announced at this moment. Two women, no longer young but retaining the looks and figures of youth, entered and looked around. One was dark with tidy brown hair; the other's flaxen locks were less controlled and her cheeks were ornamented with freckles. The men stood up.

'I'm not sure you've met,' said Raymond. 'Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, Air-Constable Hebblethwaite – Miss Joan Worralson and Miss Betty Lovell.'

'You're also known as Biggles, I presume,' said the dark-haired woman. 'I'm usually called Worrals and my friend here is Frecks.'

'Then I've heard of you, too,' said Biggles. 'Some pretty remarkable missions you accomplished by all accounts.'

'No more than your own.'

'Well,' Biggles smiled, 'it was expected of me.'

'Careful, Bigglesworth,' Raymond warned, 'you're treading on thin ice.'

'He is,' Worrals agreed. 'Why it should amaze the mighty male that what is expected of him can be achieved by a woman just as well is beyond me.'

'Let's just say,' said Biggles hastily, 'that sometimes men are in need of evidence before they can believe something and that you provided it. You have to make allowances for us sometimes.'

'Peace,' said the Air Commodore, holding up a hand. 'I want you to be friends.'

'Peace it is,' smiled Worrals. 'Perhaps I am a little quick off the mark at times.'

'Any troubles on the way?' asked Raymond.

'No – should there have been? We followed all your deviations to the letter.'

They sat drinking coffee and chatting while others arrived. The Honourable Algernon Lacey came in, grumbling about the putrid weather, and with him two of Gimlet King's old commando squad, the heavily built 'Copper' Collson, once heavyweight boxing champion of the Metropolitan Police, and the leaner 'Trapper' Troublay, a French-Canadian, whose car had broken down not far away. Algy had given them a lift.

'The sight of Algy's mug leaning out of that car window was a sight for sore eyes, my oath it was,' said Copper. 'Am I right?'

Trapper's tongue clicked.

'Every time,' he agreed.

'My main worries now are Gimlet King and Bertie Lissie,' said Raymond anxiously. 'They were planning to fly down from Scotland but this confounded weather may hold them up.'

'Ho!' said Copper. 'Trust the landed gentry to be late. They're probably still foxhunting on the estate.'

Lord Bertie Lissie and Captain Lorrington King, DSO, M.C. and Bar, the latter once leader of a group of commandos named, misleadingly, 'King's Kittens', were indeed being hampered by the worsening conditions.

'This is no joke, by gad,' Gimlet remarked, looking down into gathering murk. 'We'll be late on parade at this rate.'

'We should be pretty close,' Bertie said. 'Wish this beastly rain would stop.'

Next moment he had to bank violently as a helicopter came out of the gloom and across their path.

'I say old boy,' Bertie breathed, when they were back on an even keel, 'that was rather close. Where's he gone? He's not supposed to be up here at all.'

'Damn fool,' said Gimlet and then, as the clouds parted for a second, 'there he goes, about to land in that field.'

'Looks like an aerodrome of sorts. I might go down myself and give the fellow a piece of my mind. Not to mention an official report for a near miss.'

The rain had eased enough for Bertie to make out a makeshift runway and some huts at its end. Checking the wind direction he made his approach and was soon taxiing up to the helicopter. Two men stood beside it, watching. Bertie switched off and jumped out.

'I say, you chaps, you can't go waffling all over the sky like that,' he began, walking over to them. 'You nearly caused a collision. Why no contact with air-traffic control?'

'Don't own the sky do you?' growled the first man, tall and slightly balding, his face fixed in a morose scowl.

'No, but there are rules and regs about sharing it,' returned Bertie, his voice hardening. He flicked out his warrant card. 'Detective Air Constable Lissie, Special Air Police. I shall be making a report of this incident. Let me see your pilot's licence please.'

The man reached slowly into his pocket but instead of producing the licence, as Bertie expected, he pulled out a gun.

'Nobody's reporting me,' he grated.

Bertie looked around. The other man, older, shorter and stockier, also had a gun in his hand. Apart from the huts there were no other buildings in sight – the airfield was isolated in the midst of heath land.

'Now don't be foolish,' Bertie said, severely. 'I radioed my position as I came into land. There'll be other police here soon if I don't report in.'

'They'll be too late to be any use to you. Get your hands up.'

Bertie was assessing the possibilities of jumping the man but the gun was unwavering.

'Frisk them,' the tall man said. His companion removed Bertie's automatic and approached Gimlet.

'This guy's clean,' he reported in a distinctive American accent.

'What the devil is all this about?' Gimlet demanded.

'You'll find out soon enough. What did you really land for?'

'Why?' said Bertie. 'Is there something we should know?'

The stockier man produced Bertie's warrant card. The other laughed unpleasantly.

'Maybe there is. We just bumped off your boss and now you can join him.'

'What!' Bertie was aghast.

'When your friends get here, they'll be able to report a real air accident with you two in it. Get moving.'

The stout man pushed Gimlet violently, making him stumble and fall. He kicked viciously at the prone body but Gimlet suddenly came to life, clutching the extended foot and pulling it towards him. The man's momentum caused him to overbalance. His gun went off harmlessly, frightening some nearby birds, which rose in a flurry. Instantly, with the tall man's attention distracted, Bertie chopped down on the arm with the gun and, turning, planted a fist in the man's face. The man went over and, before he could aim the weapon again, Bertie had stamped on his hand and kicked the gun away.

'That'll do,' called a voice sharply behind them. Gimlet's adversary also lay groaning on the ground and Gimlet had the gun. Bertie picked up the other one and retrieved his own automatic and warrant card.

'Now then,' said Bertie firmly. 'It's your turn to be asked questions.'

At that moment there came an interruption. A yellow Jaguar sports car screeched down the track towards them. Shots rang out, one whistling inches above Bertie's head. He and Gimlet dashed behind the helicopter, the nearest form of cover, and returned the fire from there. The two men they had disarmed joined the others, now behind the car.

'Well this is a rum do, Gimlet old boy,' said Bertie as an impasse ensued, the firing having ceased. 'Sorry to drag you into it.'

'Not at all,' said Gimlet. 'Comes to something when someone pulls a gun on you just because you want to see his licence.'

'Any ideas what we can do? If I could get over to the plane, I could radio for assistance but that's rather a step with these trigger-happy gentlemen about.'

Nothing happened for some time, though they could hear the voices of the others, evidently discussing the situation.

In the event the decision was taken out of their hands. Bertie, turning slightly, became aware of a light aircraft coming into land. Immediately a volley of shots came smacking against the helicopter. The plane taxied to a halt just behind them.

'Hey,' said the pilot, jumping out, 'what's going on?'

'We're being shot at,' Bertie said, superfluously, wondering why the newcomer had escaped this welcome.

'Yes, I rather think you are,' the pilot said. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand, too. 'Okay,' he called. Four figures came running up, the tall man still nursing his hand. Both the men from the car were of medium build but had their faces obscured by large dark glasses.

'What kept you?' one of them complained. 'You were supposed to have been here twenty minutes ago.'

'Flying conditions,' said the pilot. 'Visibility's lousy. What are we going to do with these two?'

'That's all figured out,' the tall man said.

Bertie and Gimlet were now menaced by five guns. Once more they were disarmed and, after a struggle, had their hands tied behind their backs. Four of them dragged Gimlet over to Bertie's aircraft and pulled him in. The tall man, carrying his gun in his left hand, eyed Bertie malevolently.

'You've broken my wrist, I think,' he snarled, wincing slightly. 'I'll pour the petrol over you myself.'

'You won't get away with this,' Bertie snapped.

'Why not?' the man said. 'Plane crashes on landing and bursts into flames. Just a sad calamity. Who's going to check any further?'

'Pilots don't usually fly with their hands tied behind them,' Bertie pointed out.

'The ropes'll burn along with you,' sneered the man.

The others returned and Bertie was pulled to the plane and placed in the pilot's seat. The seatbelt was wound between his arms and fastened. The tall man picked up the petrol but the sound of another vehicle approaching distracted him. A police car skidded into view, its tyres squealing as it sped across the greasy ground.

'Cops,' cried one of the men and with one accord they ran for the plane. The tall man, the petrol can still in his hand, hesitated as if his loathing for Bertie had overcome his desire for escape. Gimlet, though, had found a sharp edge to work his bonds against and managed to free himself and release Bertie. The plane was turning for take off and, dropping the can, the tall man began to run after it. Swivelling like a hammer thrower, Gimlet hurled the can after him. It struck him on the head and he went down. By the time he was up again, Gimlet and Bertie had reached him and the police car was slithering towards them. A bullet from the plane spat into the ground at Bertie's feet and he and Gimlet went flat. The tall man started to run but Gimlet grabbed at his leg and brought him over. He kicked out, forcing Gimlet to release his hold, and started after the plane again but Bertie was close behind him and the car was gaining fast. There were more shots and Bertie leapt sideways like a startled snipe. He was not hit but the tall man staggered and then fell in a crumpled heap. The plane now took off into renewed rain.

Bertie picked up his automatic from where the man had dropped it and showed the arriving constable his warrant card.

'A timely arrival, laddie,' he gasped. 'Things were beginning to look very nasty. Now if you can take care of him, I'll get after this plane.'

Bertie took off and reported his position and a description of the other flight. Air control had located the aircraft on radar but had not established contact with it. It was flying west into thick cloud. After ten minutes or so, Bertie turned back.

'We'll never find him in this,' he complained, 'and we don't have the fuel for a long pursuit. At least his progress is being plotted from the ground and everyone's alerted.'

'Where now, then?'

'Back to that mini-airfield, I suppose – if I can find it again.'

There were still some breaks in the cloud and soon they were coming into land once more along the tiny track. An ambulance was in attendance now and another police car. Bertie jumped out and went over to them. A CID officer greeted him.

'Jones – Detective Inspector,' he said. 'You work for Inspector Bigglesworth, I presume.'

'Yes,' said Bertie, uneasily.

'I saw him further up the road a little while ago.'

Bertie gave a deep breath.

'That's a relief,' he admitted. 'They said they'd killed him.'

'They tried but hit the wrong target.'

'Your men arrived here in the nick of time. It looked very much as if our numbers were up.'

'That was as a result of the earlier incident. All cars were asked to look out for a yellow vehicle dented on its near side. We happened to spot this one. Lost it for a while but found it just in time. That plane arriving was a key factor. We suspected they might be connected. Glad we were in time.'

'How's the one in the ambulance?'

'Gone, I'm afraid. At least four bullets in him. Either they can't shoot straight or they were worried about what he might say.'

'Well,' put in Gimlet, 'after what he was keen to do to us, I shan't shed any tears over him.'

'A ruthless lot,' said Jones. 'Sooner they're behind bars, the better.'

'Any clues in the building?' Bertie asked.

'Of a sort. The owner of the helicopter was in there, recovering consciousness. Heavy blow from behind and locked in, alongside another plane. He's in the ambulance. We won't be able to interview him for a while.'

'Maybe the Jag's his,' suggested Bertie.

'More than likely.'

'We'd better be moving,' Gimlet observed.

'I promised to keep Inspector Bigglesworth informed of progress,' Jones said to Bertie. 'You'll be able to do that now, I presume. We'll see what dabs we can get from the car and the helicopter.'

'I fancy they meant to fire both of those,' Gimlet considered, 'but we rather diverted them.'

They took off again and within twenty minutes were landing at an official airport. With the aircraft secured, they walked to the buildings. A lithe figure of medium height stood up and came towards them.

'Hallo, Cub,' Gimlet greeted. 'Sorry we kept you waiting. One or two things came up unexpectedly.'

Nigel Norman Peters, the youngest of the Kittens, commonly known as Cub, smiled.

'Better late than never,' he said.

'Yes, by Jove,' said Bertie with feeling. 'You can say that again.'


	3. A Conference and its sequel

**Chapter 2 - A Conference and its Sequel**

'You see,' said the Air Commodore, when dinner was over and they were seated at ease in a large drawing room, 'the problem we are facing is too much for one party to deal with. As most of you have guessed, my retirement isn't the only item on the agenda. I've already been asked to stay on for a little longer in any case. The fact that four of you had narrow escapes on your way here shows how serious this all is. It is clear now that there was a deliberate attempt to remove Inspector Bigglesworth that, fortunately, failed, though more from the inefficiency of the assassins than any preventative action on our part. Bigglesworth and his team are probably the best known of you. It's some time since I've needed to call on reinforcements so I'm hoping that you others will not be recognised by the opposition.'

The room was crowded now. In addition to Biggles and his team, Gimlet and his Kittens and Worrals and Frecks, there was also Steeley Delaroy, once, as Raymond confided to Biggles, a modern day Robin Hood on the wrong side of the law but a firm ally of the police since.

'Who is the opposition?' asked Gimlet.

'What we know so far,' Raymond replied, 'is that a number of criminal activities are being master-minded from some of the quieter areas of the globe. We need to track these down.'

'Tall undertaking,' said Algy. 'There's a lot of world out there.'

'Fortunately we have some clues. One of the advantages of dwelling in such places, though, is that any stranger in the area is likely to be noted and commented on. Difficult to check up on people in that situation without them being aware of it.'

'Do we know who and where some of these people are?' asked Biggles.

The Air Commodore nodded.

'We think we've identified some of the locations where key players live,' he said, 'in some remote areas: one quite close to home, the Faroe Islands; one mid-Atlantic, the Azores; one in Malaita in the Solomon Islands. We also have friends in some of these places, who have been able to indicate suspicions but we need to make contact with them and check on who the suspects might be. The reason we're having this meeting here is so you could arrive amidst a horde of visitors and be unnoticed. I only hope that the suspected attack on Inspector Bigglesworth was coincidental and not connected with the briefing. From what they boasted of to Lord Lissie, they may believe they have succeeded, which could act to our advantage.'

'If the attempt was made by these same people,' Gimlet pointed out.

'Yes, it'll be interesting to see what Inspector Jones comes up with. But we feel that assassination is one of their major activities. You can see how ruthless they are by the incident with Captain King and Lord Lissie. Not only were they willing to commit cold-blooded murder but they shot one of their own men rather than take the chance of him giving us any information. And not all of them are going to bungle things like the group you've encountered. It may be that they tried to eliminate you, Bigglesworth, because they suspected you might soon be on their trail.'

'So,' Gimlet said in a business-like fashion, 'three locations – three teams and Mr Delaroy. Who goes where?'

'A mission for you all,' said the Air Commodore, with a faint smile, 'and more friends, some familiar, some, shall we say, recently converted to help along the way where necessary.'

They stayed the night, accommodated by the mansion's many luxurious bedrooms, ready to drive out again the next day as happy tourists. Despite the comfort, Ginger slept fitfully. A waxing moon penetrated the curtains to throw an eerie pattern on the floor. He got out of bed and gazed down on bushes and trees, silvered and romantic and an attractive spectacle for the moment. Thinking that a brief read might make him drowsy, he turned on the bedside lamp. Hardly had he done so than there was a soft and hesitant tap on the door. He opened it. Standing there, shivering beneath her dressing gown and looking distinctly uneasy, was Frecks. She put her fingers to her lips.

'I think there's an intruder,' she whispered. 'I'm sure there was some movement just now.'

'I'll fetch a torch.'

Together they crept along the passage. Ginger nudged Frecks. One of the bedroom doors was ajar. He peered cautiously around it and almost froze in horror, as he spied in the moonlight a shadowy figure by the bed, brandishing a knife over its snoring, supine occupant. Instantly Ginger yelled and tore into the room, dimly aware that Frecks was following. The light went on. A dark face snarled, then the knife was upraised again and began to plunge downwards. Frecks, standing by the light-switch, grabbed a vase of flowers, the nearest thing to hand, and flung them at the man. They missed him and almost hit the sleeper but achieved their object by intercepting the thrust of the knife. The water and flowers spilt all over the man in the bed, who awoke abruptly, and Ginger grappled with the intruder. The pair crashed on to the floor but Ginger's foot became entangled in his dressing gown. The man squirmed free and again lifted the knife, this time to bring down on Ginger. Frecks, though, with great presence of mind, picked up the now-empty vase and hit the assailant on the head with it, screaming for help as she did so.

As the man slumped, half-stunned, Ginger pushed him aside and tried to wrestle the knife from his grasp. Biggles appeared, roused by Frecks' screams, and between them they forced the weapon to the floor. The man, though, twisted away from them and made for the door.

'Stop him,' called Biggles as others started to arrive.

'Leave 'im to me,' said a grim Cockney voice. Copper's big fist completed what Frecks' vase had begun and the intruder lay unconscious. Only then was Ginger aware that the figure in the bed was Air Commodore Raymond.

'Are you all right, sir?' Biggles was asking.

'Just about, I think,' the Air Commodore reported. 'Thanks, you chaps. How on earth did he get in here?'

'Came through during the day, I suppose, and managed to slip away. Hiding up here, biding his time, presumably.'

'Actually it was Frecks you should thank,' said Ginger. 'She threw the vase. I'd have been too late. Then she used it to save me.'

'Oh dear,' said Raymond, lugubriously, 'Miss Worralson will never let me forget that.'

Worrals looked round from where she was comforting Frecks, who, with the action over, was shaking, and simply smiled.

'So what are we going to do with him?' asked Biggles.

'Handcuff him to begin with,' Raymond decided. 'It's imperative he doesn't escape. He'd better spend the night in the cells and we'll question him in the morning. Notice anything about him?'

Biggles nodded.

'Unless I'm mistaken he's a Melanesian, probably from the Solomon Islands,' he said grimly, ' one of those quiet areas of the globe you were telling us about.'

'I wonder if he's alone,' put in Gimlet.

A wary search took place but unearthed no other lethal visitors.

'There may be people waiting for him outside,' Biggles suggested when they were together again. 'A police car arriving now would alert any watchers to the fact that the attempt failed and their man has been captured. There's enough of us to mount a guard over him in two hour shifts and, if a police car and an ambulance turn up in the morning, we may be able to convince them that the attack succeeded.'

'They'll guess there's something wrong when their man doesn't return, won't they?' said Algy.

'Guessing isn't knowing,' Biggles pointed out. 'Letting your enemy wonder for a while can be useful.'

'I should take a look round, perhaps,' offered Trapper, whose years in the backwoods of Canada, frequently in the company of Canadian Indians, had made him a stalker _par excellence._

'Good idea,' said Raymond. 'See what you can find. Take care, though.'

'I'll give two owl hoots when I'm back,' said Trapper and slid away.

'In the meantime,' the Air Commodore resumed, 'we must hope this little episode hasn't compromised our plans. Did they know about the meeting or was this just an attempt to get me? Coincidence is stretching rather too much. Good heavens, he could have killed all of us if Miss Lovell hadn't been so alert.'

'I had a headache,' Frecks explained, now recovered. 'It seems to have gone now.'

'Could you have been followed?' Biggles asked.

'Must've been,' Raymond replied. 'I've known the Earl for years – went to school with him. Often down here. That's why I thought it would be a good cover, rather than you all obviously coming to Scotland Yard.'

'It was certainly a murder mission,' said Biggles. 'Three lucky escapes in one day – we really are receiving fortune's smile.'

'Well, we'd better arrange the rota for guard duty,' Raymond considered. 'Apart from making sure our prisoner remains in situ, there may be others of his ilk, ready to second his attempt. I don't feel much like sleep at present so Delaroy and I will take the first shift and Bigglesworth and Captain King can arrange the others from their groups.'

'Are we to have a share in this task?' enquired Worrals, acidly, 'or do you think two women with guns are incapable of guarding one dazed and handcuffed man?'

'I think Miss Lovell has already performed her guard duties for the night,' said Raymond, diplomatically, 'and done them very well too. You're welcome to join the arrangements, though, if you wish.'

The clear sky had clouded over, as Trapper emerged from the building, and the moon, which could have been a hindrance to any unseen progress, was now obscured. The grounds were extensive but his guess was that any more of the murder team would be waiting outside – any car involved would be trapped by electronically operated gates otherwise.

He followed the fence around till he found a place where a branching tree allowed him to climb over, then stiffened as he reflected that such a place might be where the assassin had planned to escape and that his associates might be near at hand. A blood-curdling screech by his ear might have unnerved many but Trapper recognised it as emitting from a real owl and continued unperturbed. He thought he sensed a bat go by but his ears were alert to other than the normal noises of the night.

His eyes registered the first sign of a presence, though – the flicker of a match followed by the dull red glow of a cigarette. Long experience had honed Trapper's night eyes; he made out the dark shape of a car and also of a thick tree beside it. Swinging himself easily into its branches, he sat in a crook of the trunk immediately above the vehicle and waited. A murmur of voices wafted up to him.

'He should have done it by now,' said one,

'Maybe the old man stayed up late,' said the other.

'Hope nothing's gone wrong,' said the first. 'I thought I saw lights over there a little while back.'

'If he hasn't returned by the morning, we go in with the crowd and see what we can find. Any police presence will tell some sort of story.'

'And if they've got him?'

'We take him out before they can question him.'

'Let's hope this is the last time we have to stay here on watch. I know all their daily routines by heart now.'

'If he doesn't show it'll mean plan B and those wretched timetables,' the second man complained, 'and an uncomfortable reception from Arragon.'

'Arragon, Hamlet, Prospero!' the first man snorted. 'Why do they have to be so flipping cultural?'

'Shows their sense of superiority over the likes of us – and Caliban inside.'

Trapper listened intently. There was nothing distinctive about the voices – both London accents. It began to rain again, which made his present position unpleasant and the conversation more difficult to hear with the pattering of drops on the roof, though this made it less likely that he himself would be noticed. Dampness could induce a cold, though, and, deciding that he had heard enough, he edged himself back round the trunk and on to the ground. Then he crawled to the back of the car and ran his fingers over the numberplate. Once he was sure of that, he inched his way into the trees. As he did so, the car window opened and a cigarette butt was thrown out.

'These are not very clever men, I think,' Trapper assessed. Wearing dark gloves, he felt around from behind the bush and came across three such butts. Having scooped these up, he crawled away to report. Reaching the fence again and feeling quite wet, he sneezed violently before he could climb over.

'Mon Dieu,' he breathed, when the fit had passed, 'a good job that didn't happen any earlier.'

Morning began much the same as usual for the Stately Home. A milk float arrived as the first streaks of dawn were shredding the sky and that was followed not long after by a baker's van. Groceries were delivered next but the grocer's departure was accompanied by a flurry of warning bells as a police car and ambulance came squealing up. The grocer waited for them to go on to the mansion before driving out.

Some time later the ambulance left and, accompanied by a second police car, drove with urgency along the Oxfordshire lanes. They were passing through a wood when, rounding a bend, they almost collided with a fallen tree, sprawled across the road; indeed the police car skidded into a bush to avoid it. The two ambulance men leapt out hurriedly but, instead of running to the tree, dived for cover on opposite sides of the road. Their alertness was justified for seconds later a huge explosion turned their ambulance into a blazing wreck. Nearby an unseen vehicle could be heard driving away. As the two policemen emerged shakily from their car, the crew of the stricken ambulance met up by the fallen tree and gazed back at their vehicle.

'Lucky there weren't nobody left in that, my oath it was.' said Copper. 'Looks like your friends in the car have been busy.'

'Tiens!' said Trapper. 'at least they left the baker alone.'

The early queue of cars at the entrance had gone by the time a faded green Viva drove up. The driver tendered his half-crown and moved on. When he was out of sight, the attendant, noting its number, reached for a phone.

The van, which had taken Raymond, Biggles and their prisoner out, had also brought more plain clothes detectives in. Once the green Viva had parked, the two men it contained were monitored as they progressed through the building. Predictably they moved away from the main throng and had penetrated the mansion as far as the laundry room, catching a glimpse of some bloodstained bedclothes, before an official arrived and escorted them back to the public area. Here they joined the tour again and had no further opportunity to drift off into the private apartments.

For a while they investigated the grounds before finally departing. An unmarked police car followed them, part of an elaborate shadowing exercise, which involved a number of cars and a helicopter. All those concerned needed to be at their most alert.

The pair drove south for almost an hour before they reached a large town. Here they parked the car and mingled with shoppers for a while before making their way to the railway station where they caught a train for the west. They alighted at Exeter, which boasts two main railway stations, and took a taxi between these before boarding another train heading for Waterloo. There were many minor stops on the way, though, and, indeed, their destination proved to be a station in Somerset so small that the plainclothesman following them found it difficult to leave the train without being seen. They were on foot to begin with but, after a while, an ancient lorry picked them up, and it was Biggles, from the helicopter, who observed their final journey along a country lane to a lonely house.

'So now we know what they meant by timetables,' he commented, turning for home in fading light.

'Good job the boys on the ground knew their stuff,' said Bertie. 'This pair has been ducking and diving like a fox fleeing hounds.'

'Let's hope they've gone to earth now, then.'

They were back in the Air Police Office before more information came through from the local police. The two men had been picked up from the house by a small van and driven to a larger residence on the other side of the village. They had returned two hours later.

'Good work,' complimented Biggles. 'I think we should take a closer look at this latest establishment.'

'Quiet sort of place,' said Ginger as Biggles drove into the village the following morning.

Biggles nodded.

'Just what these people like, according to what Raymond said, ' he replied, turning a corner. 'Should be close now.'

'So what do we do when we get there? Organise a raid?'

'On what pretext?' asked Biggles. "We've no search warrant and not enough evidence for an arrest. And no idea what we might hope to find. Trapper's night work has given us a lead. How useful that is remains to be seen but any hasty action now might close it off.'

They passed a large, rambling, ivy clad house – a respectable retreat for a successful businessman. Behind wrought iron gates a black Rolls Royce adorned the drive, flanked by the remnants of roses that would have made a rare showing a month or so before. The owner was evidently a keen gardener or, at least, employed those who were.

'Sir Simon Villiers-Silver, Chairman of Villiers Industries,' said Biggles, anticipating Ginger's question. 'Engages in a variety of activities. Some involvement in arms manufacture, which may be significant. And, if you remember your Shakespeare, the character in _The Merchant of Venice_ who chose silver was called Arragon.'

'Raymond hasn't let the grass grow under his feet,' said Ginger with satisfaction.

'He's lucky to have feet for it to grow under after last night,' said Biggles drily.


	4. Opening moves

**Chapter 3 - Opening Moves**

'Portugal is one of our oldest allies,' the Air Commodore had said, 'and whatever we might think privately of its current regime, we don't want to do anything to upset it. Tread carefully.'

'At Flores in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay,' quoted Frecks, recalling a schooldays rhyme.

'We're in San Miguel,' Worrals corrected. 'Right group, wrong island.'

'No problems so far – except from the rain.'

'Why should there be? Tourists bring money and dictators have never been averse to that. But it's certainly wet and windy.'

The streets of Ponta Delgado were narrow and busy and it was hard to avoid being splashed by passing vehicles. The two women ducked into a side street to the unpretentious entrance to their hotel and climbed the stairs to the reception. A smartly dressed policeman was talking to the receptionist. He turned and smiled at them as they approached.

'Ah, the English ladies,' he said. 'Welcome to the Azores.'

'Thank you,' said Worrals.

'Captain Pereira, at your service. I hope you have a pleasant stay.'

'I'm sure we shall. Do you usually drop in to wish the guests well?'

'I have to keep an eye on our visitors. Part of my job.'

'Very kind of you.'

'Not at all. A pity you are here in the wrong season. It is wet and cold in December.'

'Warmer than England,' Worrals assured. 'This is like our summer at times. And we can't always choose when we can get away.'

'Will you be seeing much of our island?'

'We'll be touring around. Why? Any parts we shouldn't go?'

'No, no.' He reached for his cap. 'Enjoy your stay, ladies. And have no fears. We shall ensure you come to no harm.'

A final farewell smile and he descended the stairs. The receptionist looked anxiously after him.

'Does he usually do that?' queried Frecks.

The woman shook her head and handed Worrals her keys.

When they were alone, Worrals gave Frecks a warning sign.

'They may have bugged the room,' she whispered. 'Careful what you say.'

When they emerged again the rain had ceased but the wind was persisting, especially when they came out by the harbour.

'Well,' said Worrals as they walked beneath cheery Christmas lights, 'what did you make of that?'

'Do you think he was checking up on us?'

'I'm sure he was. The question is on whose behalf.'

'What do you mean?'

'You saw the receptionist. She was chatty enough when we arrived. Now she's terrified to say a word. Police have a lot of power in dictatorships, partly because their bosses are usually paranoid. Whether Salazar is like that or not, I don't know, but he was in a fair way to being ousted by a popular general not so long ago and prevailed in very dubious circumstances. Now the general is no more but you can bet there's a sharp eye being kept out for any potential successors. Our friendly policeman may just be a zealous servant of his official master. On the other hand. .'

'You think . . .'

'Dictatorships also breed corruption. He could be here on the payroll of the people we're here to seek – and making sure we don't get too close.'

'He seems to be something of a womaniser, too. He was being very familiar with that receptionist when we came in and you could see she wasn't happy about it.'

'That could work to our advantage. That type of male usually underestimates female capacities because he thinks of us only as passion fodder. Let's hope that's the case this time.'

'Best make sure we don't underestimate him,' pointed out Frecks.

'Don't worry,' said Worrals grimly, turning towards a multitude of lights, defying the approaching darkness, 'I'm not likely to do that.'

There was a minor surprise the next morning, when the clouds of the previous day had cleared away and the sun shone brightly. Worrals and Frecks were walking by the harbour again when Frecks suddenly stopped.

'Look at that,' she said, a note of incredulity in her voice as she stared out to sea. 'Am I dreaming or is that an island out there?'

'It's an island all right,' Worrals confirmed. 'Wonder why we didn't see it yesterday.'

'Not so clear, presumably.'

An unwelcome voice came from behind them.

'Ah, the English ladies. What is so interesting to you?'

'Good morning Captain Pereira,' Worrals said, turning round. 'We were discussing the island. Neither of us spotted it yesterday.'

The policeman smiled.

'Ah, that is Santa Maria. You see it today and tomorrow it is gone. A good trick, hah?'

'Sea haze, I suppose,' said Worrals, quite willing to talk about such a safe and trivial subject.

'Yes. The island is 50 kilometres away. If it is not a clear day, it cannot be seen. Luckily we police can see whatever the weather.'

He saluted extravagantly and left them. Worrals watched his departure suspiciously.

Biggles eased his aircraft on to the grass runway at Auki, the main settlement of Malaita in the Eastern Solomon Islands, gauging the wind so that he could straighten up the nose of the plane at the precise moment needed to make a smooth landing. He and Ginger jumped out and watched the others follow them in. He looked around. A tin hut was the only evidence of a terminal building.

'Hardly Heathrow,' said Algy coming up to him. 'Any signs of life?'

Biggles frowned.

'Wonder if it's safe to leave the planes here,' he mused.

'We can't take them with us, old boy, if you see what I mean,' commented Bertie.

Smyth, who for years had acted as their mechanic and had been added to the party, joined them.

'I can always stay around and keep an eye on things,' he offered.

'It might have to come to that,' considered Biggles. 'It means tying a man down but I can't see an alternative at present.'

'Here's someone at any rate,' Algy reported as an ancient truck snorted its way towards them.

'Good,' said Biggles, a note of relief in his voice. 'I thought we were supposed to be met.'

A grizzled white-haired head looked at them from the driving window.

'Hi,' said the driver. The voice was American and the ruddy complexion told of a long sojourn in the tropics by its owner. 'You're smack on schedule.'

'So this is your airport,' said Biggles. 'Not much activity.'

'Nope. If you wanted to sneak in unobserved, this wasn't the way to do it.'

'What's in the hut?'

'Fuel! I'm Joe Hunt, by the way. You'll be Bigglesworth, I take it.'

'Yes!'

Biggles introduced the others.

'We were wondering what we should do about the aircraft,' he confessed.

'Lock 'em and leave 'em,' was the succinct reply. 'They should be all right. My instructions are to take you home for a meal.'

'Whose instructions are they?'

Joe's face creased in a grin.

'My wife's,' he said. 'Jump on the back. It isn't far.'

Five bumpy minutes later, Joe's wife, dark-haired and vivacious, was welcoming them.

'Dump your kit in the spare bedroom,' she said. 'Two of you can sleep in there, the others in the long room at the front.'

'Sure you can cope with us all?' Biggles queried. 'We can always find a hotel.'

'People usually stay with us. Look strange if they didn't. Sit down and prepare to eat.'

An appetising smell supported her comments.

'The word is,' Joe began, when the second helping of meatloaf had been consumed, 'that you're over here to advise our local police. You can tell that to the canaries but I'm not probing into your real reasons. Officially I know what I've said. Unofficially I think you'll want to be heading south soon. If anything strange is happening, it'll be there.'

Biggles looked at him carefully.

'I take it flying's not an option,' he said.

'Only by helicopter. Flying boat'd be difficult because of the reefs. The main problem you have is that, out of Auki, there aren't many police for you to train. If you're after someone, you won't catch them by surprise.'

Biggles watched two geckos manoeuvring past each other on the ceiling.

'Hmm,' he said doubtfully. 'I'll need to sleep on this.'

'I don't suppose it really changes anything,' he said later, when they were sitting in a police Land Rover, parked by a quiet stretch of road. 'We always knew we'd stand out whatever we did.'

'There is this about it,' said Bertie, 'whoever's trying to contact us won't have any problems of recognition.'

'How they'll do that without being spotted themselves will be difficult,' Biggles considered. 'We're bound to be watched.'

'Even if we aren't,' said Algy, 'word'll go around about the places we stop and the people we talk to.'

'But if we stop a lot and talk a lot,' suggested Bertie, 'there'll be too many to check up on.'

'That's what we'll have to do,' decided Biggles with a sigh. 'It's going to be a long job.'

Some days later Biggles and Ginger had arrived at their fifth village, settled by the shore with another part across a small lagoon. Biggles stopped the Land Rover and gazed anxiously at the water.

'I don't like separating,' he said unhappily, 'but can't help feeling that we'll need to be available in both these places. One of us will have to go out to the island.'

'I'll go,' Ginger offered. 'Will you stay by the Land Rover or sleep in one of the huts?'

'Should be safe enough to accept their hospitality. We've been okay so far.'

A villager approached to greet them.

'Wanem name belong you?' he asked.

Biggles told him.

'What name belong you?' he asked in turn.

'Name belong me, Patrick,' said the man, unexpectedly. 'You go long where?'

'Me come village belong you?' Biggles requested, drawing on his limited stock of Pidgin.

The man turned and walked towards the huts. Biggles and Ginger followed. Another villager joined them.

'One feller canoe, him catchim island quick time?' Biggles queried.

Evidently it did for, a few minutes later, Ginger had his kit in the back of a tiny canoe and Patrick was paddling him across. Biggles gave him a wave and returned to the Land Rover.

Ginger attempted to engage Patrick in conversation as the canoe traversed the tiny stretch of water but he soon abandoned the effort, contenting himself with watching the muscular arms wielding the paddles. The water was clear and populated by a multitude of many-coloured fish, mainly small and moving with apparent equanimity as if in a natural predator-free aquarium.

They arrived and he scrambled ashore. Patrick explained to some curious villagers why he had come and he was escorted to the guest hut, where he was to stay, by a bevy of young boys, wearing only faded grey shorts, in contrast to their vibrant black skins.

Ginger paused at the door of the hut to thank his hosts for their hospitality at such short notice. A small group had gathered and on one face there was no smile. Ginger caught his breath as he noticed it for it reminded him forcibly of a face he had seen before. This might be some relation. The last time he had been close to such features, though, they had been glaring over the sleeping form of Air Commodore Raymond and there had been a knife upraised in the hand. This must be the very village from which the would-be assassin had sprung.

'Postcards,' said Worrals, when their attentive policeman had gone.

She and Frecks entered a small shop opposite the harbour. A slim, dark-haired young lady smiled at them. Worrals and Frecks selected their cards and took them to the counter. To their relief the girl spoke English.

'I understand there is a house that can be rented,' said Worrals after she had paid over the money and placed the cards in her handbag.

'Yes!' the girl confirmed.

She mentioned the name of a small village on the north side of the island and showed Worrals where it was on the map.

'May we rent it for a week?' Worrals asked.

'But yes. It is vacant at present. You may have it from tomorrow if you wish.'

'Thank you,' said Worrals. 'That is what we would like to do.'

Next day, after a long bus ride, they moved in. The house was large and white and stood on its own, a little apart from the rest of the village, up some steep steps from the road.

'This'll keep us fit,' gasped Frecks, struggling up with her cases.

'We may need to be,' said Worrals, grimly. 'Let's go in.'

The large country house on the Devonshire/Somerset border was well lit up when Gimlet arrived.

'Thought your pal lived in Sussex,' said Copper, who was chauffeuring.

'He does,' said Gimlet. 'This is his uncle's place. Freddie's looking after it and him while his cousin's away.'

Copper went off to park the car after delivering his chief to the front door. His evening would then be spent commiserating with other chauffeurs about the injustices of the class system and how some masters were a sight better than others.

Gimlet had been here before and the butler's greeting combined respect with cordiality.

'Good evening, Captain King,' he said, 'may I venture to hope that you are well.'

'I'm fine, thank you, Jenkins,' said Gimlet. 'You are well, I trust – and the family.'

'Yes sir, thank you, sir. Captain Ashton is in the library at present. He requests that you join him there for a word or two before the evening begins. Only a few guests have arrived so far.'

'Thank you, Jenkins,' Gimlet acknowledged. 'I'll find my own way there.'

'Very good, sir.'

The library door was open and Gimlet walked in. A middle-aged man, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a book, got to his feet and strode towards him, hand outstretched.

'Hello Lorry, old man,' he said familiarly. 'How's things?'

'Fine thanks, Freddie,' Gimlet returned. 'You're looking in good order.'

'Can't complain. Take a pew. Drink?'

'Not just yet, thanks. I need to stay alert tonight.'

'How's Lorrington Hall?'

'Damned expensive to run.'

'Same here. Upkeep of these big properties is becoming impossible. Then you have that place in the Highlands, too.'

'I was there last week,' Gimlet admitted. 'You must come up some time.'

'Thanks I'd like that.' Freddie leaned forward and lowered his voice. 'Your man's coming,' he confided. 'Well enough known in these parts. Respectable enough by all accounts.'

'I didn't expect anything else.'

'He's been here before so the invitation won't seem unusual. Pleasant enough fellow.'

They joined the other guests, many of whom Gimlet already knew. He chatted briefly for a while, commiserating with others about the plight of the landed gentry. Others arrived, dinner-jacketed like himself, and soon Jenkins was announcing Sir Simon Villiers-Silver.

Gimlet sipped his drink and watched Freddie making the introductions. Sir Simon was tall and distinguished. His hair was beginning to grey but his body was lean and lanky, bespeaking much exercise. Eventually he was brought over to Gimlet's group, Freddie introducing Gimlet formally as Captain Lorrington King.

'Pleased to meet you,' a soft voice said. 'Ghastly weather, what?'

Gimlet agreed. 'Villiers,' he said, thoughtfully. 'Wasn't that the name of the Dukes of Buckingham years ago?'

'Quite right, it was. I'm some kind of descendant, I think but one of my ancestors was something of a rogue, it seems, and we haven't been able to pursue the trail beyond him.'

'But for that you might have a peerage,' Gimlet suggested.

'Shouldn't wonder. Lot of usurpers in the House of Lords these days, I expect. Lots of wrong people in positions of power. Not easy to shift them. How about you? Some sort of soldier, Freddie said.'

'I did my bit,' Gimlet admitted, modestly. 'Bumped into Freddie from time to time in the course of it. Just a bloated capitalist landowner now, I'm afraid.'

'Best way to be.'

Freddie ushered him away to meet another group.

'The problem is,' Gimlet commented as Copper drove him home, 'that we don't know for sure whether he's involved or not. There may be a motive in a disgruntled would-be peer, feeling hard done by in the aristocratic lists. Any news from downstairs?'

'I 'ad a word with 'is chauffeur. General topics only. 'e shut up like a clam if anyone mentioned 'is boss.'

'Very loyal of him. Is that normal?'

'No it ain't. The others was 'aving a right beef.'

'Hmm,' said Gimlet. 'We might be wrong, of course.'

'Not Trapper,' Copper asserted. 'If this Sir Villiers is on the level, what's 'e doing giving 'ouseroom to a couple of characters who tried to blow us up? Descended from Dukes, is 'e? Long John Silver, more like.'

The car drove on along narrow high-hedged country lanes.

'Hope they've kept the fire going,' Gimlet murmured. 'That place of mine can be damn cold in winter.'

'Mist forming too,' growled Copper. 'Just what we didn't want.'

'Maybe we should have stayed at Freddie's,' Gimlet considered. 'He did offer.'

The mist thickened and Copper slowed down, straining to see the road ahead. Moments later, as they turned a corner, a large shape loomed up at them. Copper, with an oath, swerved violently towards the only space available, which was to the right on the wrong side of the road. He swerved back again to avoid the ditch and the car came to a halt grazing a hedgerow and part of a farm gate.

'Well, that was a near thing and no mistake, my oath it was,' Copper breathed after a moment of silence.

'Damn fool,' said Gimlet. 'Where is he now?'

'Gone,' said Copper. 'Didn't even slow down.'

'Any damage?'

'Only to the paintwork.'

'Let's be getting along then. Incidentally, did you get a look at the vehicle?'

'Too busy dodging it.'

'I only caught a glance, but it looked to me as if it might answer the description of the lorry that gave a lift to that pair of villains the police followed to Sir Simon's village. What was the chauffeur like?'

'Short, stocky,' Copper began, adding other details as he thought of them.

'Hmm,' said Gimlet. 'He may have been one of that gang of thugs Bertie and I encountered. Did he see me?'

''e was around when I dropped you off at the beginning.'

'Was he now? I wonder if he acted unilaterally or with his boss's blessing. Villiers-Silver didn't strike me as the kind of person who would act impulsively.'

''e'd 'ave 'ad your description from the planeload, even if that chauffeur wasn't involved. Maybe your name too.'

'Yes, I shouldn't be surprised. Be interesting when I visit him.'

'You ain't goin' to 'is place after this.'

'Why not? He's too sensible to try anything in his own house, knowing that I'll have told people where I'm going. Well, let's hope there aren't any more untoward incidents to delay us. I'm looking forward to a nice hot nightcap round a warm fire. This evening is chilling by the minute.'

'Sounds good to me,' said Copper and drove on.


	5. Disturbing developments

**Chapter 4 - Disturbing Developments**

In the event Worrals and Frecks rented the large white house for longer than a week. Some days they would spend in the village but they also came into Ponta Delgado from time to time and followed the tourist routes. Whether they were watched or not they had no way of knowing. They made no secret of their journeys, travelling by bus on each occasion and officially reporting their change of abode, aware that this would be known anyway. As Worrals pointed out, if they were being watched, it meant that Raymond's scheme to use unknown agents to do his investigations had failed, making their position an acutely precarious one. Meantime the only faces they saw regularly were unsuspicious. There were the villagers they greeted when they struggled up a steep narrow road past small houses to the store and the church. The shopkeeper was friendly and the local priest gave them a lift one day. The bus drivers smiled at them but the ticket collector further along the route would mutter morosely as he clipped their tickets. With the bothersome Captain Pereira apparently otherwise engaged, the receptionist at their hotel became cautiously friendly again when they stayed overnight in Ponta Delgado.

A long bus journey one morning took them along the south coast and inland to Furnas, which boasted thermal pools and, not far away, one of the large crater lakes on the island.

'Beautiful spot,' said Frecks, admiring the spectacle of the water with its surround of trees and hills and a distant ruin on its further side. 'Pleasant enough place for a holiday.'

'Which is what we're supposed to be having,' Worrals pointed out, side-stepping a steaming patch of ground before her. 'Watch where you tread. Furnas means furnace, I think, and it isn't called that for nothing.'

'It's beautiful but a bit grim,' decided Frecks. 'Dark green hillside with foliage reaching down to the water's edge; fire smouldering beneath our feet and puffing out steam at us; spooky old ruin, which could be a vampire's lair – all very menacing really.'

As if to brighten things up, the sun emerged for a minute. As it did, there was a momentary flash from the old church building. Worrals frowned.

'Wonder what that was,' she said. 'Look – there it goes again.'

'What do you suspect?'

'Binoculars! Someone is watching us. There, now it's clouded again. Just a brief appearance.'

'And I don't much like that cloud that's come to cover it,' said Frecks with feeling. 'There's a lot of rain up there and it's going to be tumbling down on us at any second. Let's get back.'

A drizzle began as they reached the road. There was a bus shelter there and they hesitated by it.

'Might not be much,' Worrals assessed. 'Let's go back to the town. We can buy some more postcards then.'

'More affectionate greetings for Bill? Lucky your old boy friend came along when he was needed.'

'He's doing a good job of romancing me. No-one would suspect his letters aren't genuine.'

'That's probably because they are. He using the exercise to woo you again.'

Worrals smiled faintly.

'Well, maybe,' she conceded. 'Just as long as he remembers the code at the right times.'

They were striding along the road now, around the bends that led down to Furnas. The rain, having eased to tempt them into the open, now poured down in earnest. They were on a straight stretch for about 300 yards and at the end, where the road bent to the right, was an open gate and a barn nearby.

'I'm getting soaked,' said Worrals. 'Let's duck in here for a minute.'

'I'm all for that,' Frecks agreed and they scurried towards the building. A final spiteful lash caught them just before they reached it and they gratefully sought sanctuary in the wooden structure, which, fortunately, had a sound roof.

'This is awful,' gasped Frecks. 'It's like a monsoon now.'

'Well, we were warned,' said Worrals, philosophically.

'That last surge really did for me,' Frecks continued, peeling off her raincoat. 'This is saturated.'

'So's mine. I think I'll take my stockings off too – they've been splashed pretty thoroughly. Don't want a chill.'

They lay the stockings and the coats on some nearby hay. The barn was home to some farm implements as well and also boasted an ancient and faded brown settee, on which they sat.

'My legs are cold, now,' grumbled Frecks.

'Better than wet,' Worrals assured, laughing.

'It's easing a bit,' said Frecks, getting up and going to the entrance. 'Hey,' she added, staring back up the road, 'there's a car coming. Maybe we could hitch a lift.'

Worrals joined her and gazed at the approaching vehicle and its driver. The lull in the rain gave her a clearer view between the swishes of the windscreen wiper. Frecks was about to jump out and wave when Worrals stopped her.

'Get back, you fool,' she hissed. 'Can't you see who it is?'

Frecks looked more carefully and turned a troubled eye on Worrals. He was out of uniform but, as he swept round the corner, there was no doubting the familiar features of Captain Pereira.

'Well, well,' murmured Worrals. 'He's a long way from his headquarters. Long drive on his day off.'

They returned to the settee.

'Did you guess?' Frecks asked.

'Not exactly but I did wonder what anyone observing us would do when we left. Now we know. Had we been still walking, I wonder if he'd have picked us up. And where he'd have delivered us.'

'Do we carry on to Furnas now?'

'No, I think we'll stay put. He may think we got a lift into the town and be looking for us there.'

'What about the bus?'

'We'll keep an eye open for it and hail it as it goes past. It'll probably pick us up. They're usually fairly casual about bus stops in country areas. Fortunately it'll still be light.'

'And if it doesn't stop?'

Worrals shrugged.

'Then we'll have to sneak down the hill into Furnas and find somewhere to stay the night. Or we could stay here, of course. Plenty of rain water to drink but I've only a couple of apples to eat.'

'Horrid prospect,' said Frecks, feelingly.

In the event the bus did stop for them when, having stuffed still damp stockings into handbags and resumed the slightly drier coats, they waved at the vehicle.

'Ponta Delgado dois,' said Worrals to the driver, having quickly learnt the Portuguese for two.

He laughed and made some comment, which clearly referred to their wet condition. Worrals smiled and she and Frecks took their seats a few rows behind him. They stopped at the lake for another grateful passenger, a man who Frecks thought was vaguely familiar, and as they did so a car overtook them. Worrals nudged Frecks.

'Recognise it?' she queried. 'That's our loyal shadow going past.'

'Did he see us?'

'Don't think so but he'll probably guess we're on here.'

Worrals half expected Pereira to be waiting for them when they struggled up the stairs of the hotel and it was a relief to find the receptionist on her own.

'You are very wet,' she observed, handing Worrals the keys. 'Would you like me to dry some clothes for you?'

'Thank you,' Worrals said. 'Mainly our stockings and coats. We'll get changed and bring the things through to you.'

A few minutes later, Frecks brought the damp clothes while Worrals showered.

'Thanks very much, er . . .'

'Malinda,' the other volunteered. 'These should be dry by the time you go to bed. I'll bring them up to you.'

In fact they were almost in bed when the timid tap came on the door. Worrals opened it and received the clothes. She was about to thank the woman when Malinda put her fingers to her lips and withdrew. Worrals and Frecks looked at each other, perplexed, when the door was closed. Why a routine action such as drying wet clothes should be regarded as confidential was beyond them but both heeded the receptionist's urging of caution. Worrals went to hang up her coat, automatically checking that the pockets were dry as she did so. Her hands encountered paper and she drew out a folded newspaper cutting some days old. It was from an English newspaper and told of a prisoner escaping from a court appearance. There was a photograph and, despite herself, Frecks gasped. It was the face of the man who had tried to kill Air Commodore Raymond.

'So that's why our friend Pereira has been so attentive,' Worrals whispered in Frecks' ear. 'Our friendly Melanesian must have made contact with his bosses. Quite a few of us he'll be able to describe.'

Frecks nodded.

'Especially me,' she mouthed.

Biggles arose the next day knowing nothing of ominous events in England. He gave his talk about policing to the assembled village, gathered in the communal area, suspecting that Ginger would be doing the same thing on the island. This was their ostensible reason for coming and Algy and Bertie were similarly engaged farther north. The Land Rover carried radio and he had spoken to Algy that morning. There was a mutual lack of news and he was beginning to feel a sense of futility about the task. Each village, with its simple huts, its coconut trees and its placid waters, protected from the vagaries of the ocean by the inevitable coral reef, appeared to harbour no more than a rudimentary life style bound by centuries of tradition.

They listened attentively, more from innate politeness than interest, he felt, and then it was over and refreshments were being served: the top of a coconut, severed by a bush knife so he could drink the milk that lay within. On a hot sticky day with thunder threatening, the juice was refreshing. He was picking up Pidgin again quickly but wasn't able to sustain a conversation so sat quietly sipping while the others began to go about their business again. Soon it would be time to load up the vehicle and move on. He wondered when Ginger would be back and if he had found anything.

At length he noted a canoe approaching and recognised Patrick. As the man came ashore he intercepted him and asked if he knew how long Ginger would be. The answer was unexpected and disturbing.

'Friend belong you, him gone,' Patrick said, succinctly.

'Gone!' echoed Biggles. 'When? Where?'

'Him gone quick time. Me fella no lookim this day.'

Biggles was aghast. As far as he could gather, Ginger hadn't been seen since the night before. He wrinkled his brow in perplexity, with no firm idea of what he should do. Dark clouds loomed above him and heavy rain began.

Algy replaced the receiver and turned grimly to Bertie.

'Reception could have been better but it looks as if they've got Ginger.'

'That's bad. Things hotting up down there, then.'

'Just Ginger's disappearance. No activity otherwise.'

'What does Biggles want us to do? Head on down?'

'He'll call us again in a couple of hours.'

'Wish this bally rain would stop. The roads won't be in much of a state if it carries on. And we're a fair way north. Doing no good at all as far as I can see.'

'It would have looked suspicious if we'd all gone south, bearing in mind our supposed duties.'

'Putting the enemy off the scent and all that. Not very successful, apparently. Looks like the agent hasn't contacted him but the enemy has.'

There was a pause, punctuated by the beat of the rain against the vehicle, making the pot-holed road into a series of puddles, spilling over and connecting to create a shallow stream, augmented by sudden brief cascades of water from the overhanging trees.

'Well, there's somebody who doesn't seem to mind the weather,' Algy said at length, noting a dark figure approaching them, apparently oblivious to the deluge. The man stopped and spoke some words in Pidgin.

'I think he wants a lift, old boy,' said Bertie. 'Don't blame him in this weather.'

'Which way?' Algy asked.

The man pointed ahead of them. Algy turned to Bertie.

'Might as well,' he said. 'Help pass the time till Biggles comes through again.'

Bertie nodded.

'Jump in,' Algy called to the man.

He did so, dripping on to the back seat.

'Wet for a walk,' Algy suggested, setting off.

'Less likely to be seen, though,' said the other in Standard English. Bertie, swivelling round and fixing his eyeglass, commented on the switch.

'Learnt it at school,' explained the man, 'and there might have been someone listening.'

'Would that matter?' asked Algy, warily negotiating a muddy pothole.

'It might. I thought you were due in my village today. When you didn't arrive I decided to come and look for you.'

The rain became torrential and Algy was relieved when their passenger told him to look out for a narrow track immediately to his left just around the next corner. He slowed the car to a crawl as he rounded it but even so he would never have found the opening without the expert knowledge of the newcomer. Bushes scraped against the sides of the Land Rover as they drove in and Algy fervently hoped he would not have to back out. Carefully negotiating a leafy bend, he was thankful to come upon a small clearing, bringing the vehicle to a stop beside a small and battered old truck.

Their host now reverted to Pidgin, guiding them down a slight slope into what seemed like a swamp. Wooden houses rose from this on stilts – evidently rain on this scale was not unknown here. Gratefully Algy and Bertie scrambled up the steps of the nearest building to the cover of a house. With its veranda facing away from the rain, a wooden bench, set one side of a door, remained dry and here they sat. The Islander disappeared through this door for a second and then re-emerged with a large vacuum flask.

'Tea?' he offered, handing them two tin cups.

'Yes please,' said Bertie with enthusiasm. 'Music to my ears those words, by Jove.'

The drink was accompanied by cabin bread – large and very hard crackers –and jam, which, in the circumstances, was tantamount to a feast.

'So, what name belong you?' said Algy, crunching and sipping in turns.

'John,' said their host, 'but I don't think we'll be overheard here.'

'Not with this deluge,' agreed Algy, as the rain beat down around them. 'My word, this tea's welcome.'

'I've seldom tasted better,' Bertie confirmed, raising his cup for a moment.

'So, why were you so keen to find us?' asked Algy.

'I was told to,' was the simple reply.

'Who by?'

'The government in Honiara. Special coded message on the radio among the personal notices.'

'What did it say?' asked Bertie.

'"One fella Tom Liana. Holiday belong you, him finish. You come along work quick time or no job belong you." There are many items like that each day – two others on the same broadcast – so it shouldn't have aroused suspicions. Then it went on to say that there were people coming for my job if I didn't go back to work and that informed me about you.'

'Like the messages to the French Resistance during the war,' said Bertie, approvingly. 'Jolly good idea.'

'You have radio, then,' said Algy.

'Yes. Battery, of course – no electricity up here. Still picks up some unusual frequencies.'

Algy's face registered understanding.

'So you're a kind of listening post,' he concluded.

'And mefella listen for good,' John smiled.

'Anything of interest?'

'Something big planned. And they don't like the idea of you fellers being around. They think you know more than you probably do.'

'But look here, old boy,' said Bertie. 'I thought all the main activity was supposed to be in the south.'

'It is – but their main transmitter is to the north.'

'To deflect attention from the head man,' Algy said.

John nodded.

'So how does he go about communicating with them?'

'Someone carries his orders to Auki each day and someone else brings them north. Only in an emergency will he transmit directly. He receives what they send, of course.'

'And who is he?'

John shook his head.

'We only have a code name for him,' he admitted, regretfully. 'He calls himself Prospero.'

Algy and Bertie exchanged glances.

'Can you transmit?' Algy asked.

'No, only receive. I also have to go to Auki from time to time.'

'That reminds me,' said Algy, looking at his watch, 'it's almost time for Biggles to call us up. I'd better go back to the Land Rover.'

'Don't mention me, then. There may be other listeners about. They aren't aware of us yet.'

'It's a bit late to warn him anyway with Ginger missing,' considered Algy. 'Anything else I should tell him?'

'Nothing definite. He'll know about the escape, of course.'

'Escape! What escape?'

John told them.

'You must be the only people on the island not to know. It's been on the news,' he added.

'In that case,' said Algy seriously, 'we can tell him that without compromising anyone.'

Worrals and Frecks, meanwhile, were still engaged in their sightseeing tour, aware of their likely attendants. They enjoyed the lakes - one blue, one green –in Setes Cidade and another in the midst of the island, named, ominously, the lake of fire. They spent a night in Ribiera Grande, San Miguel's second city, on the north coast with a busy Atlantic crashing against its shores with spectacular violence. Worrals wondered where one could launch a boat – little prospect among these breakers, she felt.

Between visits, they stayed at the white house by the village and continued the daily climb to the shop on the hill and the church nearby. There was less of a feeling of being watched here – the steep slope alone would have daunted all but the most enthusiastic observer.

About halfway up, there was a scattering of houses, hard against the road. They were in the midst of these when suddenly an old woman, hooded and dressed in black, the permanent garb of the Portuguese widow, came out of the lone cottage to their left and grabbed Frecks, who was nearest, by the arm, pulling her towards the humble dwelling. Frecks, half-resisting, looked back at Worrals who, unable to resist a smile, followed them to the undistinguished entrance at the back

The windows were tiny and the room they entered was dark. The woman kissed them on both cheeks and scurried further inside.

'What's all this about?' whispered Frecks.

'Search me!'

The widow came back with two tiny corn hats, which she presented to each of them with a flurry of Portuguese that Worrals only half understood. Having completed the presentations, the old lady kissed them again on the cheeks and escorted them back to the street. She waved at them from her doorway and then withdrew. An old man watching from the house opposite laughed at their bewilderment.

'The hats, always the hats,' he said in halting English. 'Every lady visitor to the village, she must give them one of her hats.'

'Very kind of her,' said Worrals doubtfully, putting hers in the shopping bag before resuming the climb.

Rain began as they reached the shop and they lingered inside until it eased. Worrals, fluent in French and with a good ear for languages, was eager to practise her Portuguese and the woman behind the counter was equally ready to chat. It was a faltering attempt at conversation but, despite her limited command of the language, Worrals persisted and the shopkeeper, pleased at her perseverance, spoke more slowly.

'Only a drizzle now,' commented Frecks and with a cheerful farewell, they set off on the return journey, glad that, with a full shopping bag each, it was downhill. As they passed the little house again, the woman appeared, waving and pointing to her head. Worrals smiled and pointed to her bag. The woman waved again and withdrew.

'Lonely, I suppose,' opined Frecks. 'Wonder how long she's been a widow.'

'She didn't say – at least I don't think she did. I'm okay in Spanish but Portuguese is very different – the pronunciation's not the same.'

'You were doing all right in the shop. Pretty good for only a few weeks.'

'I'm getting there, I think. It might be important to understand what's being said later on.'

As they started up the stairs to the house, Worrals stopped abruptly.

'One thing I did understand is that she was anxious for us not to talk about it.'

'Why?' queried Frecks. 'The old man says she gives them to everyone. We weren't being singled out.'

'I wonder.'

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. They put the shopping on the table and then examined the hats. Inside the one that had been given to Frecks was a sheet of paper, secured by sticky tape. Carefully Worrals peeled it off and read the message, quickly grasping its content. It gave a name and a place.

She looked inside her own and found a microfilm. There was no doubt. This was the contact they had come to find. She looked up at Frecks' unspoken question and nodded.

'Put the kettle on, Frecks,' she requested. 'Let's have some coffee.'


	6. What happened to Ginger

**Chapter 5 - What Happened to Ginger**

Once Ginger had laid his mat down on the floor of the guest hut and rigged up his mosquito net, he moved outside again. The man he had noted had gone but Patrick was present to offer the inevitable coconut and give advice about the meeting with the village in the morning. Thereafter he was left to his own devices and wandered irresolutely along the shore, avoiding the area designated for women. Far away he could see restless waves spending themselves against the reef, while within the lagoon was placid and still. Brightly coloured fish played beneath its clear surface but any desire he might have to join them dissolved with the view of a shark's fin breaking the water further out. Evidently there was an entrance to the sea somewhere. One or two canoes were out and it was hard to believe that anything evil could exist in such a peaceful setting. Perhaps the shark he had seen symbolised that all was never exactly as it seemed and he had just had a reminder that not every Solomon Islander was friendly.

Otherwise it was an idyllic scene, especially with the mosquitos absent; their time was mainly around sunrise and sunset here, he had learned. And to top it off, one of the canoes was being paddled by a beautiful young lady, about to pass his way. In common with other women on the island, she wore a yellow lap-lap, which covered her legs but left her shoulders bare, dark and glistening under the warm sun. She looked up and smiled at him as she passed. Ginger smiled back and gazed after her, admiring not only her figure but also the effortless way she manoeuvred the tiny craft through the water, by no means as easy as it seemed. Then she had gone and he returned to the village.

He saw her soon after, one of four women engaged in preparing and serving the evening meal, a simple affair of sweet potatoes and fish. She smiled at him again as she handed him his plate, giving an extra boost to the plain fare, which, in truth, was tasty enough.

The meal over, the women collected the plates and withdrew. A kerosene lamp gave some light to the proceedings, though it cast strange shadows across the ground. Some of the men sat with him but he found any sustained conversation difficult and any attempts quickly petered out.

After a while he adjourned to his room but the face he had seen on his arrival, though not since, haunted his thoughts. Vividly remembering the man in Raymond's bedroom, who would have stabbed him had it not been for Frecks' intervention, he concluded that if any of that ilk were about the place it would pay to be wary. A second visitation by night could not be ruled out and he lay down with no great expectations of sleep.

Nevertheless he nodded off at last but awoke, suddenly alert, some time later. What had awakened him? The sound of water, lapping at the end of his hut continued unabated; that wouldn't have disturbed him. There was hardly any moon and the hut was in darkness but his eyes were adapting quickly and he was almost certain there had been a movement just inside the door. Quietly he reached below the cushion that served as a pillow and brought out his torch and his gun. Mindful of that previous occasion, he planned to be at an advantage this time. Now there was a definite movement and the outline of a figure coming towards him. Ginger eased himself up from the other side of the mat. Once on his feet he felt more in control but, quiet as he had been, the visitor had clearly heard him.

With his nerves on edge and prepared for any sudden violent movement, Ginger snapped on the torch and his finger tightened on the trigger. But no violent snarling face and upraised bush knife met his eye; instead it was the startled features of the girl and her hands were empty.

'You come quick time,' she said at once, and, pointing to the torch, 'killem light.'

'What do you want?' Ginger asked suspiciously.

'You come quick time,' she repeated urgently. 'Bad men, him talkie talkie close up.'

Since she was clearly unarmed, Ginger switched off the torch.

'What name belong you?' he asked, feeling that he ought to call her something.

'Anna,' she replied.

Named after a European lady, he concluded. He allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the water's edge. He could vaguely make out the outlines of her canoe and, with her guidance, was able to get in. Then she was sitting in front of him and paddling away. How she knew where to go in the dark was beyond him and, mindful of that menacing fin he had seen earlier, Ginger hoped fervently that the craft would stay afloat.

They travelled for about fifteen minutes before they stepped ashore again, Anna, in a whisper, stressing the need for silence. Easier said than done, thought Ginger, ruefully, treading with care and acutely conscious of how difficult a task this would be, moving through bushes at night. No twigs broke beneath his feet, though, and he felt he was making tolerable progress behind his silent companion, when suddenly he stopped rigid at the sound of an English voice

'He's late,' it said.

'Boss's prerogative,' said another. 'Don't try being late for him.'

Ginger made out a leaf hut in front of him. Cigarette smoke wafted out through an open window. There was a desultory sort of conversation with only two voices involved but soon there was a soft pad of footsteps and an Islander arrived.

'Mistah Sidlington, he come,' he announced.

'Forget the name if you want to stay healthy,' growled the first man.

Ginger felt Anna's hand tug at his sleeve and he moved carefully back a few yards. It was as well that he did, for a torch beam appeared soon after, approaching the hut and partly illuminating the place where he had been.

'Check the place, Sam,' said a cultured English voice. Ginger, aware of his white face, turned away but Sam, for whom this was clearly a routine task, made a very perfunctory survey and failed to penetrate the thick bush behind which Ginger and Anna were hiding. He reported all clear.

'Right,' said the man called Sidlington. 'It's safe to have some light.'

A kerosene lamp flared.

Ginger caught a brief glimpse of Sam, confirming his suspicions that this was the menacing islander he had seen earlier and been ready to repel from his hut. Sam was sent to watch the path where it joined the road – something of a relief to Ginger, who wouldn't have wanted his sharp ears any closer. He was also able to catch a quick glimpse of the others, paying particular attention to the newcomer. His first thought was that there was nothing startling about him in height (medium), build (slight) or face (thin with a trim grey beard and large-rimmed glasses perched on his nose) – he had the appearance, in short, of an earnest pharmacist, anxious to fulfil a prescription. The other men were tall and swarthy but before Ginger could take any further note, Mr Sidlington had drawn a ragged curtain across the opening and the view was lost.

'Well,' came Sidlington's voice.

'Two British Police doing the rounds,' the first man informed.

'Why should that worry us? They can't know anything.'

'We think one of them is Bigglesworth.'

'Bigglesworth! I thought you eliminated him.'

'So did we. Would have done given even luck.'

'Luck shouldn't come into it. And now we've liberated Caliban, we find that Bigglesworth's chief is still active. Two dangerous men against us and, because of a series of blunders, on their guard.'

'We can soon amend that,' the second man said, significantly.

'Not here you won't,' Sidlington said, severely. 'The last thing we want is to draw attention to this area. Even if the main operations will be going on elsewhere.'

'Do you really think you'll be able to incite students to that degree?'

'Students are naïve idealists. If one side is wrong, the other must be right. There are already signs of unrest on some United States campuses. With the right degree of subversive encouragement, there should soon be protests on a grand scale. And, if one or two of the student leaders are shot soon after, who would believe it wasn't the government's doing?'

'I thought the main idea of assassination was to go for political targets – presidents and things.'

'Too difficult, and, besides, nothing comes of it in the west – nothing major. Students are easy targets – no secret service men to protect them. And what an uproar that will cause within the democracies: blood in the streets, the army called out. Really, the cities of the west are going to become most unpleasant places to be. And their banks,' he added with apparent irrelevance, 'will become very vulnerable.'

'So what do you get out of all this?' said the first man, joining in again.

'The two gods of our age,' said Sidlington, 'money and power. I plan on acquiring both. So will you if you stay in line.'

'And how about the Soviets?' came the second voice.

'Some interest – more if we are successful. We have opened up some discreet avenues of communication with interested elements behind the Iron Curtain. But that is Hamlet's territory. I shall know more later. First things first.'

'Bigglesworth,' said the first voice.

'And his ginger-haired assistant,' came the second. 'He's the one that stopped Crazy Jim finishing off that Assistant Commissioner – him and some screaming female.'

'I repeat, there's nothing much they could have found out yet. Only if it becomes necessary to silence them do we take drastic measures. There's been a spate of hasty, ill-judged actions in England and it may cause problems. We don't want that to happen here.'

'Any messages to send?' asked the first voice.

'Just these,' Sidlington replied, evidently handing them over. 'We shall deal with the reports during our conference and set the timing then. There may be events planned for other areas but that needn't concern us. Now it is extremely late and starting to rain and I must be getting back.'

'And if Bigglesworth moves on to your village?'

'That'll be my concern. Meantime, remember. No hasty action. But, if he finds anything out, then there are plenty of rivers to drown in, especially now with rain coming.'

Ginger's emotions on hearing all this can be imagined but he was also becoming wet as rain, indeed, was descending in generous quantities. He was relieved that the meeting had broken up. The light went out and Sam was summoned to hoist an umbrella over his master and lead him back to his home. The other men, also with torches, followed. Ginger stood up, wondering if there was anything else he could do.

'Go back now,' whispered Anna beside him. So engrossed had Ginger been in the conversation that he had almost forgotten her.

'House belong one fella Sidlington – you savvy?'

'Me savvy.'

'Then we don't need to follow them. One fella Sam, him belong village belong you?'

Her reply revealed that Sam had only been visiting, curious to see the two policemen. Crazy Jim and Sam were brothers, she added, confirming Ginger's suspicions.

The rain was heavy now and the wind had come up. This would not be a pleasant return, Ginger mused. He was eager to consult with Biggles. Perhaps he could go over first thing in the morning before the meeting. In the midst of his thoughts, he realised that Anna had gone on ahead and he had lost touch with her. There was a violent gust of wind from the sea.

'Anna,' he said softly and took a step forward. Next moment something hard cracked against his head and, as he stumbled, the ground seemed to open at his feet.

Algy had spoken to Biggles again.

'What news, old boy?' said Bertie, as he squelched in.

'Stay put till morning. Biggles thinks conditions are too hazardous for us to move now, especially with night not so far away. We seem to have caught the edge of a cyclone.'

'You fella wet for good,' John smiled. 'Come with me.'

They followed him off the lofty dryness of the house into a deep puddle and over to a large barn-like structure at the edge of the clearing. Algy had never imagined that closeness to a fire would be welcome in the tropics but the rain and wind had doused the temperature by several degrees and he embraced its warmth gratefully. This, he learnt, was the copra shed where the coconuts and, by the look of it, the washing dried. John's wife, Effie, had followed them down and waited dutifully at the door, keeping guard it transpired as John reached into a hidden recess and brought out a radio.

'A little different from the one in the house,' he explained. 'Nearly my time to listen in.'

'There are others then,' said Bertie.

'Yes, we take it in turns. They change the frequency from time to time but between us we usually track it down again before long.'

They listened with him, Algy standing near the fire to dry. For a long while there was nothing but static but finally a message was sent. In the heated gloom of the copra shed, the crackled words seemed like a mystic communication from another world. Their import was cryptic too: the education project was to go ahead with full vigour and the signal for its commencement would follow soon. Ginger could have enlightened them on that topic – had he been available.


	7. Captain Pereira makes his mov

**Chapter 6 - Pereira Makes his Move**

During the week after their contact with the old widow, Worrals and Frecks continued to go sightseeing with apparent enthusiasm. Worrals, though, was acutely aware of the envelope in her handbag with its precious contents – she didn't dare leave it unprotected in the house. A few days before Christmas, Bill rang through with a pre-arranged call.

'Hi, Kid,' he greeted when Worrals answered.

'Don't call me kid,' she said automatically. 'You're a bit early for Christmas.' 

'Wanted to be sure of getting through,' said Bill. 'Everyone rings on Christmas Day. Anyway I thought I'd let you know that your Aunt Edie's ill.'

'Oh,' said Worrals. 'Serious?'

'She was taken into hospital this morning. Heart attack. Doesn't look good.'

'You think I should come back?'

'Well, I know you planned to stay on over Christmas but . . .'

'No, no – I wouldn't enjoy it, knowing she's in danger. We'll come back tomorrow if we can get a flight.'

'Be good to see you. Let me know when you arrive and where. I'll meet you.'

'Thanks Bill, I'll phone from the airport in the morning. And thanks for ringing. I'd have been really upset if no-one had let me know.'

'Love you,' he said softly.

'You too,' she whispered and rang off. Frecks, listening intently, prepared to pack. Worrals' response of 'serious' was the indication that they were ready to move out. Any other reply and Bill would have downplayed Aunt Edie's condition to make it easier to stay on.

Worrals gave a sigh, appropriate for one who has had sad news about a loved one, always aware of possible listening devices in the house.

'Oh well,' she said, trying to convey a wan smile, 'we only had two slips left on the bus ticket anyway.'

Next morning they arose early. The lady who had rented the place to them came over to inspect the house and receive the keys. All was in order. Had she not been going on to Ribiera Grande before returning, she could have given them a lift. She could take them to a bus shelter at any rate – save them a walk with the cases.

Soon after she dropped them off, the bus arrived and they climbed on. It was only half full and they were able to sit together. The grumpy ticket inspector got on as usual and went his moody way down the aisle. Worrals handed him the ticket with its two journeys unclipped and was surprised when he scowled and looked at it intently. He checked in a pocket book and then clipped it and handed it back.

Receiving it, Worrals thought she could feel another slip of paper underneath. She pulled out a magazine and began to read, sliding the paper out in the process. It read, alarmingly, 'They're waiting for you. Get off at the stop after me.' Frecks gazed over and noted the message. Worrals crumpled it up in her hand and continued to read the magazine but her mind was racing. That their phone had been tapped was clear, for how else would it have been known that they were moving out and on this bus. Why were they suspected – she wasn't aware of any mistakes they had made. It must have been the Solomon Islander escaping. Their descriptions, or that of Frecks at least, must have been sent through.

There was a small town just before Ponta Delgado, on a steep hill. The inspector got off here and, dutifully, Worrals and Frecks followed suit soon after.

'Well,' said Frecks, settling herself glumly in the bus shelter, 'what now? Do we still go to the airport?'

'What else can we do? We can't go dodging the police here indefinitely. We may be able to bluff it out.'

She stood up and looked about her.

'Ah,' she said, 'just what we want. Our inspector friend must have known.'

'What can you see?' asked Frecks, joining her.

'Taxi service, a few doors away. Pick up your bags – we're on the move.'

The taxi man was polite and attentive and willing enough for Worrals to make her phone call, once a generous amount had been produced for the service. To her relief Worrals was able to get through and give her ETA and then added.

'It may be delayed, though. How's Aunt Edie?'

'Failing. Anyone you want to be remembered to?'

'Uncle Peter,' she began and then, with reckless urgency, 'da Silva of the Seven Cities.'

Peter da Silva of Setes Cidade, she thought, ringing off. He ought to get that. And he'll set the alarm bells going. Though I don't see how any of Raymond's back-up teams can help us here.'

'Right,' she said to Frecks. 'Let's go and face the music.'

They walked to the taxi.

Worrals was in something of a quandary, puzzling desperately as they neared the airport. She had no inclination to simply hand over the information they had come here to get but, if she hid it somewhere, she would have no opportunity to retrieve it. If she were searched, it would be impossible to conceal it for long and it would then be obvious that she was aware that she was taking out something she didn't want the authorities to know about. Then, if she did leave the envelope behind and there were no problems, what a fool she would feel and how Air Commodore Raymond's regard for them as female agents would fall. She assumed the bus inspector, obviously an agent, had correct information. The conundrum was insoluble so she simply did nothing, leaving the small precious cargo in her handbag, as she would do if she were innocent of its significance.

They arrived. Worrals paid off the taxi and looked around. There was a police presence but that was not unusual at an airport. No-one paid them any attention as they picked up their bags and joined the queue for the check-in. For a moment Worrals thought they might succeed as their turn came and they handed the girl behind the counter their air tickets and passports. She scrutinised them and then summoned a tall uniformed official.

'I'm sorry,' he said, having checked their documents, 'it has been necessary to transfer you to another flight. Please follow me.'

He and another man picked up their bags. Frecks and Worrals exchanged a worried frown and followed. As they anticipated, they were ushered into a separate office. Sitting behind a small desk was Captain Pereira. He beamed triumphantly at them.

'What is this?' demanded Worrals, determined not to be daunted. 'We were told we were reporting for another flight.'

'So you are,' said Pereira, 'in a smaller plane to a smaller island with fewer people. Far more convenient for asking the questions we want answered. Tell me, why did you not stay on the bus? We know you caught it.'

'We saw a taxi firm just before we arrived in Ponta Delgado,' Worrals answered glibly, having foreseen this enquiry. 'We thought it would be easier than trying to get a taxi in town.'

'Their bags,' snapped Pereira, not probing further for the moment. Worrals' heart sank as he opened her handbag and soon drew out the envelope.

'And what is this?'

'Letters from my boy-friend.'

'Ah, the faithful Bill,' Pereira sneered. 'I wonder who he really is.'

'He's Bill,' said Worrals, truthfully. 'But how would you know?'

'Strange love-letters he sends,' gloated Pereira, ignoring the question and drawing out the microfilm and the paper. 'You have saved us the search. Where did you get these?'

'Souvenirs,' bantered Worrals.

'Who gave them to you?'

'Why? What are they?'

'We shall find him, never fear.'

Not a muscle moved in Worrals' face but there was a tiny relief within her. Pereira's chauvinism seemed to have blinded him to the possibility that the agent they had met might be a woman. She said nothing.

'You will talk on the little island,' Pereira asserted. 'Nobody about, no escape – you will talk.' He nodded to himself with an unpleasantly confident self-satisfaction.

He stood up.

'Time to go,' he said. 'A pity you have not been able to ring your Bill today – he will be so worried.'

Again Worrals' heart gave a little leap. So the call from the taxi firm had gone untapped – by Pereira at least. Not that Bill or any reinforcements Raymond might have up his sleeve would be able to do anything on this tiny lump of rock they were headed for. But at least her sounding the alarm had gone unnoticed.

They were escorted out of the building and up to a little plane nearby. The engines had been started already – evidently their departure was to be without delay. Nevertheless, a delay there was, as unexpected as it was welcome.

The plane was a six-seater. Pereira planned to be beside the pilot; Frecks was ordered to sit immediately behind with Worrals in the third and back row. Two of Pereira's men, not in uniform, were to sit beside them. Worrals and Frecks had glumly taken their places and the men were about to join them, when there came an interruption. A police-officer, obviously high ranking, strode over and began to speak angrily to Pereira. Worrals strained to follow the exchange. From what she could gather, this was one of Pereira's superiors, who had evidently not been consulted about what was happening. He was older than Pereira, probably not far off retirement, but was still anxious to impose his authority. Before he gave his approval to the proceedings, he needed some facts.

'Evidence,' he was saying. 'Where is some evidence?'

'I have evidence,' said Pereira and then, to Worrals' surprise, since she had seen him place the envelope in his pocket earlier, he came over to the plane. She was even more astonished when he slid the envelope under the seat beside the pilot and turned back to argue again.

Suddenly it all became plain. Whilst Pereira was obviously working for da Silva, his superior was not. The evidence Pereira had would serve to incriminate da Silva and probably himself and was the last thing he would want his commander to see. With the other men hovering around the pair and the pilot leaning across to listen, Worrals whispered to Frecks.

'Move back.'

Frecks did so. The pilot did not notice.

'Now's our chance,' said Worrals. 'If I can get the pilot to leave the plane for a moment, you'll be able to fly off. It's all ready to go.'

'I can't leave you behind.'

'Yes, you can. It's vital we deliver this microfilm to Raymond. Who knows what lives may be saved by it? Pereira put it under the front seat. They obviously don't think enough of women to believe that we can fly. Let's prove them wrong.'

'I still don't like leaving you.'

'Things might not be so bad. The police chief doesn't think much of Pereira by the sound of it and is clearly not on de Silva's payroll. I'll get better treatment from him than Pereira. No more talking – it's our only chance. And call up Raymond's emergency frequency as soon as you're airborne.'

She could sense the persuasive tones of Pereira beginning to have effect as she went forward to the pilot, Frecks slipping into the seat behind him again.

'Too small,' Worrals wailed. 'The plane is too small. I am afraid.'

The pilot just laughed.

'No,' Worrals cried, becoming hysterical, 'I must get off.'

With that she began to scramble out of the aircraft. The pilot called out and, understandably, tried to stop her. She pulled him from the plane with her impetus and hit him with her handbag when he started to drag her back. She lashed out again, contriving to slam shut the door, and squirmed free, running towards the group, crying out to the police chief that she was innocent. The pilot followed and, for a crucial moment, there was no-one close to the plane. Frecks slipped into the pilot's seat, secured the seat belt and began to taxi, concentrating on the path to the runway but aware of the need to outstrip any of Pereira's men who, she was sure, would be chasing after her. Clearly she could not contact air traffic control and she was aware of the dangers of this kind of action with other aircraft likely to be landing at any moment. She tucked in behind a DC3 as it roared down the runway and, giving it some seconds to clear, headed off after it. As she did, she was conscious of a jeep heading at top speed towards her from her starboard side, attempting to cut her off. Determinedly she pulled back the throttle and closed her eyes, convinced that her last moment had come. She felt the plane lift and opened them again, snatching a quick look back. The jeep, full of uniformed men, had swerved violently to avoid her, its passengers deciding, sensibly, that to carry on would have been suicidal. Three of them had lost their hats in this manoeuvre, a circumstance that made her laugh briefly before she settled down on the long journey across nearly nine hundred miles of ocean to Gibraltar.

Her emotions were in a turmoil. There was elation that she had managed to escape in such a manner, and with the vital cargo still in her care but her overriding feeling was a sense of despair at having to leave Worrals behind. She doubted, in fact, whether she'd ever see her again. Whatever the senior policeman had thought before, he would be convinced of their guilt now. Meantime she wondered if she would be pursued. It reminded her of Worrals' other advice – to contact Raymond's listeners on their agreed wavelength – and this she now did.

To her joy there was a response, backed up by a code word, correctly answering the one she had given. Quickly she explained her position and her predicament and, once her message was received and understood, ceased to transmit, though she kept the frequency open in case whoever she had spoken to came back to her. Visibility was clear and, with a cloudless sky, flying conditions were excellent but that made it all the easier for her to be spotted if anyone did come after her. With this thought in mind, she had many glances at the sky behind her, squinting into the sun from which, her experience of war flying had taught her, any attack was likely to come.

She had been flying for over an hour and was beginning to think that she had really escaped, when one of her glances back took in a speck against the sun. She knew what that meant. She had been located by a pursuer and her little plane had no chance of out-running any military aircraft.

The radio crackled into life at this moment and she quickly reported the new development. She thought that the message she received was to 'hold on' but the reception was poor and, with the speck becoming larger by the second, she signed off to give the unwelcome arrival all of her attention.

Very early in her flight she had strapped on a life jacket and a parachute that she had found beneath the pilot's seat, preparing herself for emergency right from the start, and had placed the vital envelope inside her handbag, within reach. All the same, these were of very limited value if she came down in mid-Atlantic, she mused wryly.

The other plane was on her tail now and, judging to a nicety the moment its pilot would open fire, she suddenly banked to port,

Streaks of tracer marked where she had been. No doubt now about the other's intentions. She caught a quick glimpse of the aircraft as it flashed past, enough to make out that its markings were not Portuguese. That explained the delay in the attack. The plane had to be summoned up from elsewhere, not simply sent after her in an official pursuit. It all made no difference; the huge advantage in speed meant there could only be one end to such a contest.

She banked again. Once more the shells missed. Frecks was still trying to edge east as far as she could and, to her despair, noted another plane coming from that direction. Again her pursuer fired in vain. Perhaps these were warning shots, aimed at forcing her to turn back.

If this had been the intention, it quickly changed. The plane shuddered as she banked too late and some shots hit home. Instinctively she tried to duck, even though she knew how futile that was. Simultaneously the plane ahead of her opened fire but its shots went well above her.

Those that had hit had done some serious damage, though, both to her tail and her port wing, which was now in picturesque ruin and flames. Despite all her efforts, her plane began its inevitable descent and refused to respond to the controls. She could take no more evasive action now. Rather than suffer the impact of a crash landing in the sea, she leapt out, the handbag hanging ludicrously from her belt. She gazed up thankfully as the parachute responded to her pull, only to see something falling from the new aircraft immediately above her. She was a goner already, what was the point of bombing her?

Beneath her, the little plane continued its downward plunge. She followed its passage into the ocean, watching it breach the surface in a great explosion of spray, even as she cringed from what was falling from above. Nothing hit her, however, and she splashed down not far from the fallen aircraft, her inflated life-jacket giving her buoyancy as she freed herself from her chute, which floated inanely for a while like a huge white jellyfish.

Self preservation is a mighty spur and, despite the hopelessness of her position, she had begun to swim towards the plane, thinking that she might find something there to cling to, when a bulky object hit the ocean about fifty yards to her left. Her heart leapt as she realised that it was not a bomb that had been dropped over her but a dinghy. Changing course, she swam eagerly towards it and a minute or so later was clambering thankfully aboard; none too soon, she decided, noting an ominous fin lurking in the vicinity. Having detached and rolled up the dinghy's parachute and cover, she sank into the tiny vessel with an immense sigh of relief.

Looking around, she noted two paddles and even some water bottles. Perhaps her enemies wanted to keep her alive. She still had the handbag strapped on her belt, though to what purpose she was not clear, she thought wryly.

Only now did she pay attention to what was happening in the heavens. To her astonishment, an air combat was taking place, with the plane that had shot her down clearly being out-manoeuvred. Even as she watched, it broke off the engagement and, smoke pouring from its starboard engine, limped off back to the west. The victorious aircraft began to circle above her.

Noting that her own plane was still afloat on the calm surface, she paddled cautiously across to it, mindful of the problems it might cause her if it suddenly sank. The fire in the port wing had been extinguished and the wreckage lolled languidly at an angle, in no apparent hurry to disappear from view. In no mood to jettison her small kit unless she had to, Frecks paddled closer. Warily she pulled alongside and reached in to draw out the cases that were wedged against the instruments. She was able to retrieve both Worrals' and her own luggage before pulling away again. The situation was improving by the minute, she mused with mounting satisfaction.

Above her the plane that had saved her still circled around, protectively. He couldn't do that for long, she frowned; his fuel wouldn't last for ever. As she watched, it seemed to her that the noise of the aircraft was increasing. Snatching a glance to the east she spied, to her joy, an amphibian approaching and preparing to swish down beside her. It did this neatly, coming to rest only a hundred yards or so away. She paddled over and was soon being helped into the latest participant in this fluctuating drama by a smiling middle-aged man.

'Welcome aboard, lassie,' he said in an unmistakably Scottish accent. 'Sorry we couldna get here sooner but we hadna the legs of yon speed merchant overhead.'

They pulled in the dinghy and its cargo and took off.

'You'll be Miss Lovell, I'm thinking,' the man continued, handing her a huge towel as they sat behind the pilot. 'I'm Angus Mackail and the pilot is Tug Carrington, who has his own ideas about flying but has always managed to stay airborne so far.'

'I'm very grateful, Mr Mackail,' Frecks began, towelling vigorously.

'We'd prefer Angus and Tug.'

'I'm usually called Frecks.'

'There's a flask of tea back there when that Scotch Haggis gets round to it,' called a Cockney voice from in front of them. 'Sorry we didn't save your plane but I'm glad we were in time for you.'

'So am I,' said Frecks with feeling. She accepted the flask Angus handed to her and drank the warm liquid with relish. 'How do you come to be involved?' she asked between gulps.

'Biggles!' Tug said succinctly. 'We were in his squadron during the war.'

'And Air Commodore Raymond called us back to the colours,' added Angus. 'He'll be relieved to see you.'

'Is he in Gib.?'

Angus nodded.

'Worried stiff when the prisoner escaped and blew your cover. Had to be nearer to make all our lives a misery.'

'There's a wee place in the back where you can change,' he added. 'That's if the clothes in your case are still dry.'

An hour or so later, they landed at Gibraltar. The fighter-bomber accompanied them all the way and landed beside them. A tall blond man, also no longer young but clear eyed and a little severe, came across. He clicked his heels as Angus introduced him.

'One of our old opponents,' he said easily. 'Hauptmann von Zoyton, once an ace of the Luftwaffe, now a new ally. We had a rare time with him in the desert a while ago.'

'Thank you, Herr von Zoyton,' Frecks said formally. 'You saved my life.'

'I'm delighted to have done so, Fraulein,' Von Zoyton said. 'I am glad that I have not lost all my ability in the air, though had you not had the skill yourself to evade his early attacks, I would have been too late for you.'

'You two seem to be getting along just fine,' Angus assessed.

Frecks reported to the Air Commodore and explained what had happened, handing him the vital envelope, damped but not soaked, the handbag protecting it from the full impact of the sea.

'Excellent,' he breathed, studying its contents. 'Marvellous you were able to get through after we let you down so badly in England. Salvaged most of your own possessions too, I hear.'

'That was just luck,' said Frecks, but the euphoria of success was wearing off. When she went to bed that night in the comfort of a hotel, her mind was full of Worrals.


	8. In the enemy camp

**Chapter 7 – In the Enemy Camp**

It was daylight when Ginger first came to, with a searing pain in his head and a huge confusion as to his surroundings. He blacked out again soon after and such short spasms of consciousness continued throughout the day. During one of these he had a vague impression of a female voice, urgent at his elbow, but there was no-one beside him when he finally regained his senses, some time in the afternoon. Rain was falling on his face as he tried to assess his position and make some sense of what had happened. 

He was in a gloomy pit of sorts with a narrow opening at the top through which he must have fallen. He tried to drag himself back to a recess away from the rain and was relieved to find that his limbs, though also aching, responded. His head was still too woozy for him to stand, he discovered, clutching at a wall to prevent himself falling again. The sides were wooden, he realised, with surprise, showing that this was in all probability a man-made store of some kind, or maybe a hiding place – some wartime defensive measure perhaps. Nearby he saw a coconut, ripe and newly fallen. There was also a water bottle that he drank from gratefully. Clearly someone knew he was here.

Of course – the girl! He strained to remember the incidents of the night. Snatches of what he had heard began to filter through. He must get back to Biggles. But another attempt to stand led to a further collapse.

He gazed up at the opening, judging it to be ten or twelve feet above him. Difficult to climb out, especially in his current condition. Some plants were growing towards it, a few smashed by his descent and probably serving to break his fall. The rain, now dropping into a huge puddle, had obviously helped to revive him and he put his head out for it to continue the process. Then he sank back again. He was clearly in no shape to try to escape on his own so there was nothing for it but to wait. Whoever had hit him on the head had certainly found an effective prison. But who was it – and when would they be back?

Despite her own predicament, Worrals felt a wave of elation break over her when she witnessed Frecks' successful take-off, though her heart was in her mouth during the near collision with the jeep. As she had suspected earlier, Captain Pereira had completely underestimated them; it just had not occurred to him that they could be pilots. Hoping to keep the initiative, she spun round on the senior police official, whose intervention had been so useful to them, and pointed out, in faltering Portuguese, how Frecks' action proved how terrified she had been made by the unjustified persecution that Captain Pereira had subjected them to. Perhaps she could now board her plane in peace, since it had not yet departed.

This was always likely to be a vain effort and so it proved. Frecks' escape had, not unnaturally, convinced the official that Pereira had some cause for his actions. All the same, to Worrals' relief, he refused to allow an aircraft to be sent up in pursuit, arguing that she would soon be in international airspace. He would alert the authorities in Portugal and make a special request of their old allies, the British, in Gibraltar. The man was clearly anxious to avoid any international incident that might occur if a British woman in a tiny plane were to be attacked by the Portuguese Air Force. It would not be manly, he said.

Worrals offered up a prayer to the god of chivalry and, for once, approved of this element of male conduct.

Nevertheless, she was left in Pereira's charge for questioning, the older man being now satisfied of the captain's legitimate concerns. That was not so good, since it was now certain that he was working for da Silva.

Pereira respectfully saluted his superior and turned towards her.

'Your friend will not be free for long,' he hissed into her ear, once the older man had walked away. 'We will ensure that the information she has with her will not be delivered. Meantime you will tell us how she got it.'

She was bundled into a police car and driven away.

The afternoon was almost spent before Ginger heard signs of life above him. The rain had come so heavily that his position was becoming more and more unpleasant as the ground became saturated. At least it had stopped now.

He looked up expectantly and then recoiled in horror. Two faces leered down. One was Sam, whose presence had disturbed him so much, but the other, snarling in malevolent recognition, was the man they had called Crazy Jim. The network of this organisation was indeed efficient if it had spirited him not only away from the British police but also safely and undetected to the other side of the world.

Even in this obvious danger, Ginger found a second to puzzle. Sam had discovered him but evidently hadn't administered the blow. So who had?

Up above, the signs were ominous. They were talking in Pidgin, gloatingly. Crazy Jim produced a knife but Sam pointed to something just beside the pit. They laughed insanely and brought up Ginger's gun, which must have dropped there when he fell. No wonder he was nicknamed Crazy Jim, Ginger thought helplessly, trying to squeeze out of sight against the sides of the pit. It was hopeless, though – the Islander still had a clear shot. He held up the automatic triumphantly.

'Gun belong you,' he announced, his white teeth parted in an evil grin. 'You feller die finish quick time.'

Ginger saw him take careful aim, slowly caressing the trigger in a sadistic delight to prolong this moment of anguish.

'You feller stop,' called Ginger desperately, trying to stand and holding up a protective hand, 'or bad trouble belong you.'

Crazy Jim just grinned. The sound of a shot raged noisily about the tiny hollow, as if allied to the thunder, which rumbled overhead, and Ginger collapsed on the ground.

Although Pereira was busy, presumably in trying to do something about Frecks, he was obviously anxious that Worrals should be taken away from the airport as soon as possible, maybe to prevent his superior from having a change of heart. The car, with a grim-faced officer beside a handcuffed Worrals in the back, headed towards the airport exit. There, however, they were stopped by another police officer, with a large and elaborate moustache, in an immaculate uniform and obviously of higher rank than the two in the car, who halted immediately at his summons. It seemed that the chief wanted to keep an eye on Pereira and his doings and this officer was his chosen observer. Not only did he insist on joining them but he also directed the man beside Worrals to sit in the front, while he sat in the back with the prisoner.

'She is my responsibility,' he explained.

This new arrangement found no complaint from Worrals, who had been uneasy at the previous officer's proximity, clearly Pereira's man and sharing some of his amorous nature. The car proceeded away from Ponta Delgado and along the coast. Her new companion asked the others where Pereira planned to join them. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

Worrals had expected them to stop nearby but they had been going for almost half-an-hour when, unexpectedly, they turned off the main road and on to a very minor one which, between villages, became little more than a track. At one of these isolated points, where a thin path led off towards the ocean, they stopped. The driver and his companion lit cigarettes but didn't offer any to their colleague in the back. Worrals was concerned. Bushes all around made this a highly undesirable place for her to be, for she had no illusions about what methods Pereira might use to make her talk. A gull squalled down at them but there was no other sign of life.

From behind came the sound of another vehicle but any hopes Worrals may have held of this were dashed when an official police jeep arrived with Pereira driving. He frowned when he saw the car's fourth occupant, who now approached the captain and explained his instructions.

Worrals caught some of the ensuing argument, enough to understand that Pereira was trying to persuade the other man that his presence was unnecessary and he was free to take the jeep and return.

'Of course,' began the other, 'had I been too late to intercept the car, then . . .'

Pereira smiled. An accommodation might be made. They went off down the path towards the sea to discuss details.

Worrals was horrified. This latest arrival had been her last hope of some official police procedure being in place. Now, apparently, he was about to take a bribe and leave them. Only the wheeling gulls would be witnesses to what happened then.

These gloomy thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shot. The two policemen were immediately alert. Moments later the man with the spotless uniform, his moustache twitching with anxiety and a gun in his hand, ran up to them with the news that Captain Pereira had been attacked by a gang. He had fired a shot to disperse them but not before the officer had been knocked on the head. They must come with him to help.

All three men disappeared from view. Worrals, squirming in her seat, wondered if she could take advantage of the situation in any way. The handcuffs impeded her but the driver's door had been left ajar. If she could only struggle over to the front . . .

She had almost completed this manoeuvre and was perched uncomfortably in an ungainly position half over the back of the front seats, when the newcomer returned, running towards the car. He gave a half-smile at her predicament.

'No need for that,' he said in English, producing a key. 'Let's have your wrists.'

Worrals obeyed, feeling in something of a daze.

'Now get in the back and keep your head down. Best you aren't seen. I'll just immobilise the jeep so they don't have the chance to follow – if they manage to free themselves, that is.'

He went over to the jeep, opened the inside door and guided it gently into a nearby ditch. Then he ran back to the police car and began to drive along the track again.

'What happened?' asked Worrals from her prone position on the back seat.

'I gave Pereira a tap on the head when he wasn't looking, then did the same to his men while they were gawking at his recumbent form. All worked very nicely. There's a hut down there, incidentally, where you would have been worked over. An isolated spot – one of our worthy captain's favourites. We thought he might bring you here.'

'And who are you?'

'Ah, the disguise must be good. I met you at Raymond's on that interesting evening.'

'Steeley Delaroy,' Worrals cried.

'The very same. Raymond thought you might need someone to keep an eye on you.'

'He didn't tell me.'

'Didn't dare. Frightened of what you might say.'

Worrals smiled wryly.

'He was probably right,' she admitted, 'but I'm very glad to see you. How did you manage it?'

'I've been following you for much of the time – in a variety of disguises.'

'You got on our bus at Furnas,' recalled Worrals. 'Frecks said she thought she'd seen you before.'

'Sat behind you, too. I also sent you the newspaper cutting via Malinda. She's not an agent, by the way. Just hates Pereira. And quite likes me after we went on a couple of dates.'

Worrals frowned.

'I don't know that I approve of that,' she said.

'Oh, she knows the score. I told her I was only here for a few weeks. She enjoyed our times together.'

'You're forgiven, then. But how did you pull all this off?'

'We had it planned as a contingency, posh uniform and all. Once I got the signal that you were in trouble, I alerted that police chief you saw. He thinks Pereira's an upstart after his job and he might be right. He was bound to rise to that particular bait and he's more than a little suspicious about Pereira's little island interrogation centre.'

The road improved as they passed through a village and became a track again. Steeley turned off and stopped before an old barn.

'Watch where you tread,' he said, once he was sure no-one was around. 'A herd of cows went by here an hour ago.'

'So I see,' said Worrals, stepping with care. There was an old lorry in the barn, piled high with produce. From the cab Steeley took a long black dress and a black hood for her head.

'I'm afraid I've widowed you,' he apologised. 'Your disguise, madam.'

Worrals put it on.

'Fancy having to wear this every day,' she commented.

'I'll need to age you a bit more, too,' he said.

She put her handbag on the seat and submitted to the treatment.

'I'll need to do your hands too,' he added, 'and if you can age your legs, it would complete the effect, not that much of them shows under that robe. I'm changing into a farmer, your brother as it happens, in case anyone asks. I am Jose and you are Jeanne, originally French, which should cover any shortcomings you might reveal in Portuguese.'

'How long till they find the car?'

'A while I hope. It's away from the main road and the locals are likely to ignore it. You don't get too close to the police in this kind of system if you're wise.'

'Nor do you question orders if you are one, it seems.'

'I banked on that. Big trouble if you disobey a superior here.'

With Steeley transformed, his moustache removed and his face now rendered weather beaten, they drove off.

'So, where now?' asked Worrals.

'Try to find a boat. Doubt if we'll be able to borrow a plane like your friend.'

'Will our hidden allies be able to help?'

'They already have to some extent. I have a plan to follow at any rate but I don't want to get in touch any more than I need. I only know a few of them and I won't ask about whom you've met. You obviously came up with something good. Did you find out the name of Mr Big?'

'Peter da Silva of Setes Cidade. Didn't your contacts know that?'

Steeley shook his head.

'Different group,' he explained. 'Mine's just anti-Salazar and pro-democracy. You've come across the separate cell that we're really interested in – and they've delivered the goods, by all accounts. My lot are aware of da Silva, though not in that vital context. We're actually heading in that direction now. I thought Ponta Delgado would be too hot for the present.'

Worrals considered.

'Any advantage in going to Setes Cidade?' she queried. 'I don't want to venture into the wolf's lair without a reason.'

'Last place they'd think of looking for you, I'd have thought.'

They were on the main road by this time and Steeley pulled out to overtake a stationary bus.

'And that's going to the very place,' he announced, checking his wing mirror. 'I'll drop you at the stop by the turn off and you can bus in. Still have money?'

'Yes. Won't the handbag be too grand?'

He tossed her an old shopping bag.

'Put it in that. So, what do you think? Might pick up something else. And they won't be expecting you to calmly arrive on the bus.'

'What about you?'

'I'll drive in separately and sell the vegetables. You say some prayers in the church to begin with – kind of thing a mourning widow would do – and then go for a sad stroll, as if you remember coming here on your honeymoon and are reliving the memories. Spend some time on the bridge between the two lakes. Someone might come and see you if I can follow up a lead. He'll mention the word Tubby, or something close to it and you respond with Wilde and take it from there. Tubby's an old friend of mine – I don't see how anyone else could make that connection. If nothing happens, make your way back to the church by sunset. That gives you about two hours. Buy some vegetables from me whatever happens.'

Worrals nodded. Steeley dropped her off just outside a village but they were well ahead of the bus now.

Not without some misgivings, she watched the back of the lorry disappear around the bend. She had little idea of what constructive action she could take in Setes Cidade and was not confident that her ragged Portuguese would serve, even for someone ostensibly French. Maybe she would not be expected to speak at all and just be regarded as a sad figure people would leave alone.

She reached the stop and sat down at the tiny shelter. The bus was soon upon her and she got on. There were about six or seven other passengers but no-one gave her a second glance and she sat quietly on her own.

A bus from the coast road arrived at the stop opposite and two local ladies crossed over to join them. The two drivers exchanged greetings and then her bus had started, a swift right turn preceding a steep climb into misty hills and then a winding descent on the other side.

Ten minutes later they arrived, stopping near to the church, which Worrals recalled from her previous visit the week before. As she entered its grounds, she saw the vehicle start off again on its journey back over the hill. No return trip by that route, then!

As bidden, she entered the church, standing watchfully over the settlement, and sank to her knees. If she had any prayers to offer, they should be for Frecks, she felt, wondering how she was faring and whether Pereira had been able to organise a pursuit. There could be no escape from that, she sighed, unless the radio signal could summon some support. Anxiety troubled her face as effectively as grief would have done and it was no feigned creature of concern, burdened with her cares, who left at length and travelled slowly towards the bridge where the lakes joined - the blue to the left, the brooding green to her right. Perhaps it was the foliage that made the difference, for it was more lavish on the green side. She gazed at this, presenting a dark picture of sombre thought, until she noticed a priest approaching from the side away from the village. He stopped as he reached her.

'You are in grief my child?' he queried.

'It is passing,' said Worrals, who didn't feel she could simulate any extreme emotion to order.

'How peaceful it is,' the priest said. 'It is a beautiful spot this, between the lakes. I often walk here. It prevents me growing tubby.'

Worrals gave a start. The conversation was in Portuguese, of course, but the word used was the appropriate translation.

'Beautiful and a little wild,' she said.

'Walk with me a little, said the priest, 'I must be seen to be offering you consolation.'

'Are you really a priest?' she queried as they turned towards the town.

'Yes, but not of here,' he replied, 'though I do visit from time to time. Such a perfect place for meditation, don't you think?'

Worrals agreed.

'How did you know I was there?' she added.

'I had a delivery of turnips, from your brother.'

'Ah,' said Worrals.

'You wish to know more of our Mr da Silva, I understand.'

'Yes.'

'We are approaching his home at this very moment.'

Of a sudden the peaceful scene seemed tinged with evil. A huge white house rose before them with Greek porticoes adorning its entrance. Her companion began offering words of solace to which she responded. Perhaps there were microphones at the gate.

They walked on.

'Where is my brother now?' Worrals asked.

'Trying to sell his vegetables in the town. Perhaps you could buy some from him. Fill up your shopping bag.'

'I wonder what secrets that house holds,' Worrals mused.

'It would be hard to find out. There are alarms and there are dogs.'

Another widow came towards them, also with a shopping bag, filled, no doubt, with some of Steeley's produce. The black garments were almost like a uniform, rendering the wearer almost nondescript, Worrals thought. That might work to her advantage.

'There may be a way, though,' murmured the priest. 'There must be secrets there that have not been discovered.'

'Were those that we have found in that house?'

'I think not. But until today I was not aware of the particular involvements of Mr da Silva. Why do you ask?'

'They may be especially alert if they know.'

'Lot of cleaning to be done in a large house like that,' he mused and then, to the widow as she passed, 'how goes it with you my daughter?'

Worrals found it hard to restrain a smile at this familiar address to someone old enough to be his mother. But she was all ears at the response.

'I am well, Father, but my sister, Maria, is not well.'

'It is fortunate she will not need to work this evening.'

'Oh, but she will. We were not permitted to clean Mr da Silva's house this morning. He was very busy so we have to go soon. But she has been in bed all day and I fear she will be worse if she has to work. And it is too much to do on my own.'

'I shall pray for her health, my child.'

'Thank you, Father. She cannot afford not to come. Mr da Silva said that if she was sick again he would find another woman to do the job.'

'Perhaps this poor widow could take her place for the evening. It would be good to be engaged in some simple tasks instead of dwelling on your grief,' he added to Worrals.

'Mr da Silva might not like it,' the woman said, doubtfully.

'He might not notice,' the priest said. 'Are you on your way to see her now?'

'Yes, father.'

'Which is her house?'

The woman indicated a small dwelling a few doors along.

'Well,' said the priest. 'I have just met Jeanne and learned of her grief. She has to buy some vegetables. Perhaps if she calls in to Maria's house in about an hour, you will know how Maria is. Then, if Maria is still too ill to work this evening, Jeanne may be able to take her place.'

She seemed happy with this and moved off, Worrals noting carefully the gateway she entered.

'Now here's a chance,' the priest murmured as they continued.

'Are priests supposed to be so active in this way?'

'You would surely not have me neglectful when there is evil in our midst. Now listen carefully. I must tell you about the house.'

'Have you been inside, then?'

'Yes, I substituted here for a while when the old priest died last year. I called on all my temporary flock. Mr da Silva has a large study at the top of the stairs on the right. He also sleeps there, which suggests that any secrets he may have will be in that room.'

'You mentioned dogs and alarms.'

'Not a worry for cleaning ladies. And his intent is to appear a normal and benign member of the community. No armed bodyguards to alert suspicion. Employs poor widows to show himself a benefactor. Attends church regularly. Friends with some of the police. A worthy member of our community.'

They had reached the church now. In the distance Worrals noted Steeley, still selling his vegetables. The priest halted.

'I must call on my Brother in Christ,' he said. 'When you have seen your brother, it would be good for you to ask for one of us to hear your confession. Many ladies in your position become concerned about their mortality – it will be a natural act. Then some prayers before you go back to Maria and her sister Josepha.' He smiled wryly. 'You will need them.'

'I don't doubt that,' assented Worrals.

It was four o'clock and the afternoon was beginning to fade. Behind Steeley's lorry the steep cliffs on the north side of the lake were bleak and forbidding, the lake itself dull and brooding. Steeley had sold most of his merchandise but still had some vegetables left. He brought more out from under a sack.

'I recommend the parsnips,' he informed, 'especially this one. It unscrews at the end and there is a tiny camera inside. You might find something good to photograph.'

He wrapped the vegetables up.

'I have a job this evening,' said Worrals, handing him the money. 'Cleaning lady at da Silva's.'

'Good work. Come back through this part of town afterwards. If I'm not here – and it would be suspicious if I stayed around – follow the directions on this piece of paper. It shows you how to get to the tunnel.'

The paper he handed her was round a plump onion.

'Tunnel?' queried Worrals, putting it in her bag.

'Pedestrians only. I'll be parked at the other end. Not very pleasant, especially at night, but it's only about a kilometre long.'

Worrals nodded and turned away.

'Good luck,' Steeley said. 'I'll come looking if you aren't here by – what time?'

'Eight o'clock,' said Worrals. 'It should only take about two hours, Josepha said.'

She called in at the Manse and the local priest accompanied her to the church.

'I am glad Father John was able to console you,' he said pleasantly. 'I was expecting your request. I am able to hear confession in French if you wish. Father John thought you might prefer that.'

She went through a boring list of mundane faults and sins for his patient hearing and expressed concern that her grief might be considered as questioning the workings of Providence. The priest absolved her gently and understandingly and prescribed some minor penances. Then, following the programme, she knelt before the altar in prayer.

'Stay as long as you like,' said the gentle voice, 'the church is always open.'

He left. Feeling something of a hypocrite, she drew the parsnip from the bag at her feet and unscrewed the base, remaining apparently rapt in meditation for the time. She knelt in prayer with the cord between her fingers and then deftly transferred it beneath her dress and tied it to a suspender. She prayed again, a mental apology to Divinity for the subterfuge and an earnest supplication for assistance and protection. Then, feeling prepared, she stood and left, noting with relief that she was still alone.

It would have been a disappointment and an anti-climax had Maria recovered enough for her duties that evening but Worrals was met with expressions of gratitude and, after a welcome cup of coffee, she and Josepha set off.

The high gates to the da Silva villa were closed but the modernity of the establishment was shown by an inter-com and they were opened by remote control when Josepha announced herself. They walked quickly along the drive to the opulent white portico, illuminated by strategic floodlights. Whatever his other activities, Peter da Silva did not seek to keep his dwelling unnoticed.

Before they reached the door, it was opened with an irritated abruptness and a sharp looking woman, severely slim and darkly clad, awaited them.

'You are late,' she snapped. 'Come in at once.'

She hardly glanced at them, to Worrals' relief. She heard Josepha's comment that they usually had to go round the back and then she was gazing on the inside splendour of the house. A spacious entrance hall gave on to a wide staircase, which led to a landing and a passageway directly ahead, off which da Silva's special room must lie.

'Shall I start upstairs?' suggested Worrals, optimistically.

'No – I do upstairs; Maria does down.'

Worrals nodded and was soon vacuuming, suspecting that the facility of electricity would not be widespread in the area. She had just finished the entrance hall to her satisfaction when a voice came from an adjacent room.

'Maria!'

It was a male voice, peremptory and abrupt. For a moment Worrals did not associate it with herself but, when it was repeated, loudly and close to hand, she remembered, with a shock, that it was addressed to her. She half turned, noting a man as hard faced as the woman – lean and hungry Shakespeare would have said and with an ugly scar across his left cheek.

'Fetch Josepha,' he ordered, then turned on his heel without giving Worrals any kind of searching glance. She had been relieved to find that Maria's facial features were not unlike her own but any close examination would have instantly discerned the difference. Evidently mere cleaning ladies did not rate much attention here, for which she was very grateful.

Moreover the command offered her the excuse she needed to ascend the stairs, which she did with as much alacrity as could be expected of a lady of her years.

She heard the phone ring as she passed da Silva's door and a smooth sophisticated voice answering. Josepha was vacuuming further down the passage and Worrals had to tap her on the shoulder to attract her attention. The widow switched the machine off and nodded at the message. She moved towards the stairs and was actually descending when da Silva burst out of his room and, all sophistication gone, roared out over the hall. Instantly Worrals, who had been lingering unseen behind him, ducked into the room.

Her first priority was a place to hide and she looked anxiously around. On one side were the usual items appropriate to a study: desk, bookcase, wooden panelling. Behind the desk a painting of an ermined nobleman adorned the wall and, further round, heavy golden curtains proclaimed a window. She might be able to slip behind those. To her left, however, was the bed, an imposing four poster, curtained and large. In seconds she was behind it.

She was none too soon. Da Silva returned and went over to the desk. He was tall and dark, fifties probably but still very fit, if the swiftness of his movements was anything to go by.

The man and woman she had already encountered came bustling in. Their master rapped out instructions. Her escape had been reported at last, she realised, and extra vigilance was being urged. They were dismissed and da Silva, after a moment's delay, his brow furrowed in thought, followed them to the door and locked it. Worrals, peering cautiously from her vantage point behind the bed, saw him go over to the portrait and press lightly at a point high up on the frame. There was a barely discernible click and the painting was revealed as being on a hinge, swinging open at his touch to expose a safe behind it. She untied the miniature camera and brought it out in readiness. It was tempting to take a snap now but, fearful of making the slightest noise, she refrained.

Da Silva brought a small box to the desk and unlocked it, taking out a folded document, which he spread out. There were four pages to it and, after looking carefully at each one, he gave an audible sigh of relief. His intercom buzzed. Someone had arrived. Clearly torn between replacing the papers and meeting the newcomer, he hesitated for a second, then strode to the door, unlocked it and, leaving, locked it behind him.

Worrals could scarcely believe her luck. Instantly she was out of her hiding place and over to the desk, camera in hand, noting carefully exactly where the papers lay. When she had photographed each one, adding the wall safe and a framed picture of da Silva and another man for good measure, she slipped quickly back to her hiding place. The key was already in the lock as she regained it.

Once more da Silva locked the door behind him. He scooped up the papers and restored them to the box, replacing this in the safe and closing it so that it appeared to be a picture once more. Then he was ready for his visitor and strode across the room to unlock and fling open the door. The figure that entered was no surprise to Worrals. It was Captain Pereira.


	9. Dangerous predicaments

** Chapter 8 – Dangerous Predicaments**

Between his radio calls to Algy, Biggles had visited the little island, Patrick canoeing him over. He inspected the hut where Ginger had slept, his concern increasing when he found that some of his gear was still here, though not his gun or his torch. Clearly Ginger had gone to investigate something and not returned. When, what and why?

The answers came on the trip back. It was nearing the time he had arranged to make the second transmission and, as they approached the canoes, a young woman was about to paddle out. Patrick evidently had business to conduct on the island, for when she asked if Biggles wanted to be taken across, the Islander acquiesced immediately. Biggles stepped into the canoe and she paddled away.

Once out of earshot, she quickly explained what had happened.

'You feller go along friend belong you quick time,' she advised. 'Big trouble belong him. Gettum kill.'

Fortunately Biggles was aware that this meant Ginger was hurt in some way and not actually dead – 'die finish' would have been the term for that. He listened carefully to her description of the place and of the part of the road where she would join him, since it was not advisable that they should be seen together. She dropped him off and paddled down the coast. The rain had eased here but conditions were worse farther north, he gathered after his call to Algy.

He drove off along the green fringed road, watching his rear-view mirror carefully to check on whether he was being followed. Two trucks came the other way but paid him no attention other than ensuring they could squeeze past on the narrow track. He soon found the arranged spot, an abandoned shelter on one side of the road facing a slender path on the other. His conversation with Algy would have given her a start and he hoped she would be there soon.

In the event it was only a minute or two later when Anna arrived, slipping so slickly into the passenger seat that he was barely aware of her. Thankfully he drove off again.

She nestled behind him, hidden from the outside by the hood, which Biggles had drawn across during the rain. She could only be about twenty, he mused, commanding a high bride price, Patrick had joked when watching them set off, and yet this was one of the agents Raymond had spoken of. Worrals had been right when she claimed that men underestimate the capabilities of women – here was a case in point.

The foliage all looked the same to him but Anna's local eyes expertly guided him to the place to stop. There was no-one around and she was out of the Land Rover and on to the path before he had applied the hand brake. Jumping down, he strode round the vehicle to follow, only to see her coming back.

'Bad mens,' she hissed at him urgently. 'Two feller find friend belong you.'

She took him by the hand and led him carefully along the path, diverging from it by a small hut. Biggles drew his gun as they came to the pit and he saw the men call down and heard Ginger's voice from below. One of them was pointing Ginger's gun and there was nothing else Biggles could do but shoot. The man was knocked forward into the pit, the gun falling from his hand. Thunder sounded. Anna had vanished. The other man, snarling, leapt away into the trees.

Biggles hesitated. He could do little while the man was loose but he looked anxiously over the edge to check on Ginger, struggling into a sitting position, and on his assailant, prone and evidently unconscious. The bullet had hit him in the shoulder, Biggles thought, so he was probably still alive. A stone struck him on the ear and he turned quickly.

He had only been there for a second but the other man was almost on him, brandishing a bush knife. Biggles evaded the blow but as they grappled, his gun was knocked from his hand and, catching his foot, he went over. With a gleam of triumph his attacker raised the bush knife again but suddenly there was a flurry of movement behind him and, pitching forward, he would have landed on Biggles had Biggles not squirmed out of the way in time. Anna stood there, a rock in her hand.

Biggles retrieved his gun and looked warily at the body. He ought to be out cold after a blow such as that but he would have handcuffed the man had he not left these in the Land Rover. He had rope but he would need that to get down to Ginger.

Anna, in fact, wasting no time, was already fastening the rope around a tall palm tree and in seconds was in the pit beside Ginger, who had now regained his feet. Biggles tied another rope to the tree and let that down so Ginger could be given assistance in climbing. A third rope joined these and, with Biggles on one side and Anna the other, Ginger managed to clamber out, sprawling on the top as he did so. Anna, lithe as a gymnast, shinned down the rope again and returned with a fallen coconut, which she opened with the bush knife. Gratefully Ginger drank.

'That's better,' he said, looking up. 'You were only just in time.'

'So I saw. I was in the same fix till . . .'

Anna hushed him, obviously anxious that her presence should not be known and not convinced that both Islanders were completely unconscious.

'What do we do with these two beauties?' Ginger asked.

'Blessed if I know. Contact Auki I suppose. I'd ask the villagers to help but they might cut up nasty, thinking we'd injured two of their people. To begin with I don't like the idea of this character running around loose when he comes round, so I'll fetch the cuffs and secure him.

Once he had done this and Ginger was sitting in the Land Rover, Biggles radioed the police at Auki, stressing the need for an ambulance. Anna, anxious to return to her village quick time, slipped off into the trees.

'How are you feeling?' Biggles asked. 'You ought to be in hospital, really.'

'It was a heck of a blow,' admitted Ginger, 'but I think I'm recovering. Seeing you was the best tonic I could have. I'm still trying to work out who hit me, though.'

'Not who, what?' corrected Biggles. 'Anna told me on the way. You've just been drinking some of it.'

'I don't get it.'

'The coconut, falling off the tree – and by the size and weight of it, you're lucky to have got away as cheaply as you have. If it had hit you straight on, it could have killed you.'

Thunder sounded again and was accompanied by another deluge.

'Suffering catfish,' said Biggles, 'when it rains, it really means it, doesn't it?'

'It'll give Anna an excuse for being delayed.'

'Hope it doesn't hold up the speedboat they're sending from Auki,' said Biggles, gloomily. 'The sooner we're away from here, the better.'

Worrals, meantime, was overhearing some surprising information. According to Pereira her escape had occurred only one hour earlier and the gallant captain had been released by his men within twenty minutes of the ambush. Doubtless da Silva received this news with the scepticism it deserved, for his response smacked of cold rage.

'What did you learn from her before this – ambush?' he enquired icily. 'What accomplices have you tracked down?'

This would be especially interesting, Worrals considered, concentrating hard, but she was astounded to hear a farmer in Ribiera Grande, a shop-keeper in Furnas and an old man in a place she didn't catch as her likely sources. With some relief she realised that she knew none of these people and, indeed, she suspected Pereira of inventing them. Why?'

'You are rounding these spies up?' queried da Silva.

'It is in hand,' Pereira assured him, airily.

'And why did you delay in informing me of this? You were almost here before your men rang through.'

'We were confident of recapturing her,' Pereira explained, awkwardly, 'and didn't want to take up the time of a busy man unnecessarily.'

'And where do you suppose this elusive lady is now? One escapes to sea and your bungling pilot fails to catch her, the other slips clean from your grasp and could be anywhere. This room, even!'

The unconscious irony of this remark caused Worrals a moment's alarm. Would he put his thought into practice and instigate a search? But the comment was clearly not meant seriously, as his next words showed.

'She has probably fled the island by now. It is unlikely she would come near Setes Cidade if, thanks to your inefficiency, she is aware of me, but you had better watch the roads just in case. I have already told my people to investigate strangers. You were foolish enough to have your own files microfilmed, it seems; I do not want to be compromised in that way. Now you had better see about those patrols.'

Pereira left, somewhat sheepishly, Worrals thought. She knew now that the information she had was priceless and that what Frecks had taken to safety, successfully it seemed, was only half the picture. But how was she to get out of here?

Help now appeared from an unexpected source. There was a knock. Da Silva called out 'come in' and Josepha's face appeared round the door. Would it be appropriate to clean the master's room now? Assuming an affability he clearly did not feel, da Silva said it would, doubtless deciding that it would be injudicious to let the cleaning ladies know there was anything wrong for them to tittle-tattle about the village. Worrals fervently hoped she would not start by the bed and these hopes were fulfilled as Josepha plugged the machine in just inside the door and commenced operations on the study section. Da Silva did not move. He stayed at his desk and when Josepha came to work around it, he stood up, walked to the other side and leant on it, keeping his eyes unfalteringly upon her.

Worrals had taken advantage of the noise to restore the tiny camera to its hiding place. Now, with da Silva's attention riveted on the widow as she cleaned beneath the picture-cum-safe, her chance had come. She was wary of a mirror at the side but da Silva did not move. Once she had taken a few steps and was near the door she could claim she had come to check details with Josepha if she was discovered but no such contingency was required and she slipped from the room unseen. Picking up a duster Josepha had left, she began to dust the banisters on her descent. Pereira was ascending as she did so but she kept her eyes on her work and he did not give her a second glance. At the bottom she resumed her vacuum cleaning in one of the side rooms, hardly daring to believe she was getting away with this.

A tap on the shoulder made her jump but it was Josepha, telling her that their activities would have to be curtailed, since Mr da Silva would be in conference with some important associates soon and the house must be quiet for such a meeting. He had thanked her and paid her the usual amount for both of them.

'You will not be needed tomorrow,' the severe lady informed them as they left, 'but come on time the day after. You have been able to do only half the work being so late. You must work much harder, especially you, Maria. There were long periods when your vacuum cleaner was not in action.'

Worrals nodded, her head downcast. Still she was not challenged.

'Maria has a cold,' Josepha explained, nervously.

'Then it had better be cured and soon.'

They walked into a moonlit evening between carefully tended flowerbeds that had looked a picture in the afternoon. There was a brief delay at the gates, which was unnerving for Worrals, but they opened at last and the two women walked out.

She had done it. Perhaps she should pray more often! Effectively the presence of the two widow women had been ignored. Hoist by their own disdain, she thought, parodying _Hamlet_ and then reflecting that that was a code name for one of their villains. She couldn't see it applying to da Silva.

She dropped off at Maria's with Josepha in case they were being watched and handed the sick woman her pay.

'Take it,' she urged. 'They thought I was you anyway, incredibly. Nobody really looked at me all evening.'

'They never do,' said Josepha, boiling the kettle on an old coal-range stove. 'Thank you. We're very grateful. Now, do you have somewhere to spend the night? You can always stay with one of us.'

'Thank you,' acknowledged Worrals, 'but my brother will be waiting for me.'

'Some coffee before you go?'

'Thank you.'

Worrals accepted the cup and remained a few minutes longer before taking her leave. Josepha decided she would stay overnight with her sister, which was even more to Worrals' advantage, since any watchers would see one widow leaving as per usual instead of an unprecedented two. She picked up her shopping bag from where she had left it inside the door and walked off into the empty streets, trying to remember the directions to the tunnel. The street lighting was patchy and she was able to melt into darkness, thankful for her black clothing, when a patrol car passed. All the same, blundering around in the dark was the last thing she wanted to do and it was a great relief when she stumbled against the notice announcing the tunnel's presence after only two or three false starts. Mindful of what she had overheard, she proceeded with caution and was rewarded when a renewed spell of moonlight outlined a shadow near the entrance.

Worrals ducked down and watched. It was a policeman all right but not an alert one or he must surely have seen her approach. All the same he had clearly heard something for he drew his gun and flattened himself against the wall beside the entrance. Someone was coming through from the other side and that, she realised, could only be Steeley, walking straight into a trap.

It was with some relief that Biggles found the little scene around the pit unchanged on his return. He had only been away a matter of minutes but he was aware that was time enough for a rescue to be organised if the friends of this murderous pair knew the situation. Now it was just a question of how long they would have to wait. The squall had passed again so Anna would be able to return to her village without causing undue attention. He was now fully briefed with what Ginger had overheard and anxious to convey this information to Raymond without delay.

Just before nightfall the speedboat arrived, making an awkward landfall with misleading ease. A doctor came ashore, a strong accent indicating his Scottish origins. With him were two Solomon Island policemen supervised by a white inspector, whom Biggles had last met in Honiara. Two more men with stretchers made up the complement.

'We know this fellow,' the inspector said as Crazy Jim was brought up. 'Caused a stack of trouble. You can add this to the charges when you get him back to Britain.'

The doctor, working by torchlight as the tropical night came swarming in, staunched the wound in the shoulder and decided that an arm had been broken.

'He'll survive, though,' he said. 'They're tough beggars, some of these Islanders.'

What happened next was unclear. The two policemen had been detailed to watch over Sam, who still lay face down on the ground, but attention was focused on the treatment of Crazy Jim. Biggles had sent Ginger back to rest in the Land Rover, a make-shift bandage round his head, intending that the doctor should take a look at him before the boat left. He was talking to the inspector when the two constables suddenly lurched forward and there was a flurry of feet. Biggles swung his torch to reveal several dark figures, among them Sam, disappearing into the night. He fired his gun into the air and raced after them, the constables in his train, but he stumbled heavily and the surer footed rescuers vanished from view. Sam had clearly been conscious for some time, for he seemed to have no trouble keeping up with them, despite still having his handcuffs. Anna's wariness had been well founded.

An engine started nearby and he arrived at the road in time to see the back end of a truck accelerating away from him. The Land Rover was about a hundred yards behind but moving towards them. Aware of the slim forces at his disposal, Biggles sent his police companions back to their inspector and, waving Ginger down, clambered aboard.

Taking the wheel, he explained what had happened.

'We're hopelessly outnumbered but at least we ought to make sure of Crazy Jim,' he said. 'That's why I ordered the others back.'

'I'm sorry I wasn't quicker off the mark,' Ginger apologised. 'I must have dozed off for a moment so I didn't see the truck arrive. When I heard it drive off and noticed your torches, I thought I ought to make a move.'

'No blame to you – you're bound to be woozy for a while. The question is what will Sidlington do now? Will he remain in the shadows, aloof and apparently unconnected with events or will he show his hand more clearly? The next few hours could be quite lively.'

The red lights ahead vanished as the truck turned a corner. Approaching the bend, Biggles slowed a fraction. As he swung round it, the headlights picked out a huge mass across the road. Already braking, they skidded to a halt, bumping abruptly against the obstruction, which gave Ginger's battered head a nasty bang against the windscreen and caused Biggles to lurch against the wheel. Dark shapes leapt out of the bush and, as Biggles hastily reversed, his headlights picked out brandished bush knives. A rock flew past his ear, bouncing off the steering wheel to land on the floor at his feet. Ginger, though still dazed, tried a warning shot with his automatic but the weapon refused to fire. Small wonder, he thought grimly, since it had lain in a puddle for most of the day.

Fortunately for a vital second or two, the attackers seemed to be getting in each others way and, although four of them were up with the car, trying to allay its progress and clamber aboard, Biggles completed the manoeuvre and sped away, shaking off in the process a glaring figure on the bonnet, who was hacking away at the roof.

'Are you all right?' asked Biggles as they drove off.

'Think so. Now there'll be a bump on my forehead as well. What made you slow down?'

'Remember our Berkshire experience? This mob seems to enjoy having unpleasant surprises for us around corners. The thought just struck me that there might be others in play and we could be driving into a trap.'

'Why not go off to Auki in the boat now?'

'I thought of that, but it doesn't send much of a message to all the decent folk we've seen over the past week or so. We'll leave in an orderly fashion if we can.'

The others were ready to go when they got back. Biggles reported very briefly on what had happened. The inspector frowned.

'I'll have a force sent out from Honiara right away,' he promised. 'If we're talking the kind of numbers you fear, we'll need some reinforcements. Strange, we don't often have this sort of trouble, though some villagers can turn nasty if you hurt one of their number, even by accident. You're sure you won't come with us.'

'Quite sure.'

'Well, I appreciate your reasons. Looks like we'd both better move before that mob gets here.'

'One thing – have you heard of an Englishman out here – name of Sidlington?'

'Yes – respectable enough, something of a recluse by all accounts. Interested in plants and marine life. Why? Do you think he might be in danger?'

'If I don't get through,' said Biggles seriously, 'I think it would be an idea to mention his name.'

'Right,' said the inspector in a curious tone. 'We'll be off, then. Make sure of one of the prisoners at any rate. Glad this rain has stopped.'

'We'll get back to the village – if that's safe.'

'Should be – different village, different people, even a different language at times. Tell them what happened and they'll probably mount a guard over you. I'll be seeing you. And good luck.'

The speedboat surged off into the night. Joining Ginger in the Land Rover and with a wary eye to his rear, Biggles drove back to the village. As they arrived he brushed his foot against the rock that had been thrown at them. To his astonishment it had split.

'What's this?' he murmured, bending down.

Inside the rock were two crumpled sheets of paper, filled with lists of names and locations. Biggles placed them carefully in his pocket and smiled grimly.

'Interesting method of making contact,' he remarked.

'Good job he was accurate,' said Ginger briefly.


	10. Under attack

**Chapter 9 - Under Attack**

Crouched near the tunnel mouth, Worrals felt in her shopping bag. The policeman's attention was riveted to the entrance and she was able to creep closer to him. As Steeley appeared and the officer was about to move, her hands closed on an unseen object and she hurled it, realising as she did so that it was the onion, now without its accompanying directions. Despite the poor light, her aim was true and caused the man to make an involuntary exclamation and, instinctively, turn towards her. Instantly Steeley was out of the tunnel and, before the man could react, Steeley's fist had taken him in the pit of the stomach. As he doubled up, gasping, another blow caught him on the point of the chin to send him sprawling.

In the process, however, the officer had fired a shot which, whilst spending itself harmlessly in the earth, would attract immediate attention. As Worrals ran over, Steeley guided her into the tunnel, stooping on his way to pick up something from the ground.

'What was that?' she whispered.

'Your secret weapon. Removing the evidence.'

The path through the tunnel was narrow and a bustling stream ran alongside, sometimes bubbling over so that she was constantly splashing through puddles. There were dull blue lights along the way but too far apart to be of any assistance. In the circumstances it was impossible to hurry, despite the fact that she thought she could hear shouts from the tunnel entrance behind her. The lower part of her widow's dress was becoming very wet and she still clutched her shopping bag with one hand, patting her thigh with the other to ensure that the miniature camera was still in place. Rats squealed at her feet and she was relieved that she had not had to make this passage alone, smiling wryly at herself, since the journey presented no real dangers as such and would be undertaken by villagers every day, no doubt.

Still no signs of pursuit. The tunnel seemed to go on for ever but eventually she was aware of a flicker of moonlight ahead and emerged cautiously to find herself on a tiny track, which led off between trees. She half expected to be challenged and had braced herself for the confrontation, but none came and soon Steeley was guiding her to the old lorry, hidden nearby.

'Funny no-one followed us,' Steeley said, moving away. 'I could hear that policeman shouting at one stage. But nothing else. Pity about him recovering so quickly. I clearly do not have Copper's expertise in the pugilistic line. Getting too old. Losing my touch.'

'Of course,' Worrals said, remembering, 'they're expecting people to come in.'

She repeated what Pereira had said.

'Why should he lie?' she concluded.

'Saving face, probably – and his place on the payroll.'

'And you were coming in. That would just add to his assessment.'

'There was an officer on watch at this end, all the same. Pereira wasn't quite fooling himself. Fortunately the man wasn't alert. He's sleeping a little way off and should take some time to free himself when he comes round. He didn't see the lorry so that's all right for the moment. I didn't expect someone the other end too, though.'

'Then he will also know that he was hit by someone going in. With luck that'll distract Pereira for some time.'

'So, how did you get on?'

'Brilliantly. Your little camera had better work properly. I suspect it's carrying the crown jewels.'

'Great work! Now all we have to do is get off the island.'

'Yes,' observed Worrals sombrely, 'that's all.'

The inspector had been right about inter-village rivalry. Patrick was aghast at Biggles' news of the attack and enlisted several burly Islanders to keep watch at the village's edge. If Sam visited again, his welcome was likely to be a sharp one.

There were no incidents and they set off in good time in the morning, alerting Algy and Bertie in the process. Biggles explained the whole situation to them, reasoning that the dangers of this information being intercepted were offset by the need to ensure that it was shared with others in case they were ambushed on the way.

Patrick went with them for a while, helping to provide a bodyguard by driving his own battered truck, bristling with armed villagers, to follow them down the road.

They had been going for the best part of half-an-hour without incident, before the drama began. They were between villages when a plane swooped overhead and an explosion came from nearby.

'Good grief,' breathed Biggles, 'he's got a bomber – of sorts.'

In the face of this attack, Patrick's truck noticeably, and understandably, lagged behind. A further bomb, landing just behind the Land Rover, blew a small tree across the road, effectively blocking it.'

'There goes our bodyguard,' groaned Ginger.

'Don't be too sure,' said Biggles, snatching a glance at the sky.

Another aircraft was now on the scene and harrying the first. That the newcomer was the more skilled pilot was shown when he managed to position himself immediately above the first plane and dropped a small missile on it. There was an explosion close to the cockpit and when rifle fire was added, the first plane withdrew.

'By all that's wonderful,' breathed Biggles, 'Algy's taking a hand.'

Seconds later Algy came through on the radio. The road ahead was still clear but there was a river coming up soon. He thought he had located two vehicles likely to intercept them.

They came across the first of these at the next corner. The intention had been to block the road with a truck but more gunfire from Algy's plane, flying dangerously treetop high, had interrupted the manoeuvre and Biggles scraped past without a break. The other car had taken up station by the river, was Algy's next report, but he was going to try to persuade it to withdraw with some more grenades. A few moments later he was able to tell them of his success.

Five minutes more and they had reached the river but here was another obstacle.

'It's in flood,' gasped Ginger, 'we'll never get across that.'

'We have to,' said Biggles, 'on foot if need be.'

He began the drive across the ford but the waters, waist high, were too much for the vehicle and the engine stalled. Immediately Biggles leapt out.'

'Come on,' he said, 'we'll have to hoof it.'

A bullet whined from the shore as Ginger joined him. Algy, swooping lower and lower, again was able to distract the attackers. Ginger staggered and was almost swept away by the current but Biggles offered a steadying hand in the nick of time. More bullets swished around them as they made uneven progress. Algy was turning for another approach but there was still time for a ragged volley before that and it was only a matter of time before one of them was hit. If that happened, there would be no gainsaying the raging torrent, even if the wound was slight. Plenty of rivers to drown in, Sidlington had said. He was not far off achieving his goal.

Suddenly a rifle opened up from the other bank. At first Biggles' heart sank; there was no hope at all if they had marksmen on both sides of the river. But the shots went well wide and the firing behind them faltered. A familiar voice rang out.

'Keep going chaps, I'll discourage the blighters.'

'Bertie!' Biggles cried and plunged on with a new hope. Thankfully they struggled up the path the other side and found Bertie kneeling beside a bush, rifle in hand.

'Hello, you chaps. The jolly old Land Rover's parked nearby. Another roaring torrent to cross but not as ferocious as this one and fewer annoyances on the way.'

'Great stuff, Bertie,' said Biggles. "We thought you were another outbreak of the enemy at first.'

'That was their little scheme, in fact, but a few of our boys in blue nipped it in the bud. We listened in to all their dastardly plans on the Home Service last night. The opposition doesn't know about that little facility, though, so keep it under your hat. That's why we couldn't tell you more this morning.'

'Who's with Algy, then?'

'Smyth. Thought we'd rally the troops and all that.'

'Thank goodness you did,' said Biggles with feeling.

'And what's happened to you, me lad?' Bertie asked, noting Ginger's bandaged head.'

'Hit by a coconut,' Biggles explained. 'Not a very good dressing but best I could do in the circumstances. Where did the pineapples come from?'

'Left over from the war. Surprised they still did the job.'

Ten minutes later they had arrived at the second river, much less swollen than the first, and crossed without incident. Algy continued to fly above them on vigilant alert.

Steeley thought it would be suspicious to travel by night so, after putting some distance between themselves and the tunnel, he found a quiet back road and a shady grove of trees and they slept the night uncomfortably. It was at least shelter, Worrals considered.

'You seem to have made most of the contacts,' she said on the journey. 'Why didn't they just send you?'

'Two bites at the cherry, perhaps. And then Raymond felt that a woman's touch would find possibilities not open to a man. It was a pity Pereira latched on to you, though. He was probably being a nuisance at first till our prisoner escaped and sent out descriptions. Lucky I made sure he didn't see me that night.'

'So we've been under surveillance while you've had a free hand,' Worrals accused.

'Yes, but I can pass as Portuguese. I even have a fake Portuguese passport. Having had friends in the wrong places comes in handy sometimes. Besides, I may have had the freedom but you're the one who's delivering the goods.'

They set off at first light, bleary-eyed after several ineffectual attempts at sleep. They stopped for breakfast at a café in a tiny town and Steeley made a phone call.

'They might have monitored that,' said Worrals when he returned.

'Nothing unusual in a call to Portugal, ringing an uncle and asking after an aunt.'

'How does that help us?'

'It's a British Embassy private number. They'll contact Gibraltar and summon up some assistance. The uncle and aunt business was a code.'

'Not a very original one,' smiled Worrals, thinking of her last phone call to Bill Ashton.

'One key question we have to answer,' said Steeley as they drove away, 'is whether that officer I hit caught sight of you after you threw the onion or me when I socked him.'

'I don't think so. The light was bad and all he'd have seen of me, if anything, was a dark outline. I was half behind a bush in any case. He didn't have time to have much of a look at you.'

'All the same, plenty of people saw me selling my vegetables yesterday and Pereira may latch on to that if he's alert. That means that this particular vehicle and my current disguise may soon be a liability. Fortunately it doesn't need to serve me for much longer.'

Soon after, on another quiet stretch of road, Steeley found another back turning and another isolated and secluded spot. A small anonymous black van was parked unobtrusively nearby. Steeley looked all around and gave a sigh of satisfaction and relief.

'Good,' he smiled, 'no-one here and the van in exactly the right place. Our friendly cleric arranged this. Out you get. Time for a change. And I can resume my own clothes again at last.'

He brought out the make-up kit again and transformed the ruddy-faced countryman into a pallid, bespectacled town dweller. Worrals stayed as she was but travelled inside the van, where she could not be seen.

They travelled not to Ponta Delgado but to a smaller town a little way along the coast. Here Worrals had a lonely meal in a restaurant while Steeley went in search of a man with a motor boat who, for a consideration, would take them across to Santa Maria. According to his sources, the man had done such services before, charging exorbitant fees and assisting an assortment of dubious characters in the past.

She drank her coffee, paid her bill and went out into the street, huddling in a bus shelter during a sudden shower. A familiar black van stopped and its sympathetic driver offered her a lift.

'How did you get on?' she enquired as Steeley drove away.

'All set. He was reluctant at first but a generous offering of escudos made him more amenable and the American dollars clinched it. But he's not a man of many scruples, I suspect. Given half a chance he'll take our money and sell us to Pereira. He's done that before, apparently.'

'Why are we using him, then?'

"Keep anyone decent from getting into trouble. He doesn't know about you yet so your presence will be a pleasant surprise. Best shed the widow's weeds now in case he mentions it later. We don't want to give them a possible trail to follow.'

A little way out of the town, they stopped.

'This is where I arranged to leave the van,' Steeley explained. 'It'll be gone within half-an-hour, just like I hope our trusty lorry has also disappeared.'

'Quite a network.'

'It needs to be. If it isn't efficient, it dies.'

They walked along a cliff for 100 metres or more and then descended some steep steps to the quiet cove where the boat was resting. Steeley helped Worrals aboard. There was a tidy cabin to keep a spattering of rain at bay and she was glad of the hot coffee to combat the evening chill.

The boat owner was a thin, moody man who immediately demanded more money for his extra passenger. The wad of dollars Steeley flourished mollified him. After that he said little. He went on deck to start the motor and Steeley went with him. Worrals finished her coffee and, once they were well under way, joined them.

The lights of the shore flickered at them like diamonds in a deep dark cave. There was just room in the tiny wheelhouse for the three of them to be sheltered from the spray.

'Why don't you stay below?' growled the boat owner. 'Too crowded in here and you'll only get cold.'

'Enjoying the voyage,' said Steeley. 'Besides we'll want you to change course soon.'

'What do you mean? Thought you wanted to go to Santa Maria.'

'Changed our plans. We'd like to sample the sea air to the east if you don't mind.'

'What if I do?'

'Then we'll have to persuade you.'

The man's response was to swing the wheel violently. Worrals fell over and Steeley was thrown heavily to the side, hitting his head against a window. As he began, half dazed, to struggle to his feet, he saw the man produce a wrench from his pocket and draw back his arm, ready to strike. Steeley put an arm up, sensing it would be too late, but the blow didn't come. Instead Worrals' voice cut in, loud and determined.

'Drop it!'

The man obeyed and put his hands in the air. Breathing deeply, Steeley stood up.

'On the floor,' he commanded. 'Face down.'

The man obeyed. Steeley, who had been prepared for this contingency, produced string from his pocket and tied the man's hands and feet. Then he removed the glasses and massaged his head vigorously.

'Thanks,' he said. 'I'll have a headache as it is but nothing compared to what this thug was going to give me.' He laughed suddenly. 'Is that really what you poked into his back?'

In her hand Worrals was holding the parsnip with its secret cargo of camera.

'Good job I brought the shopping with me,' she said and then, as Steeley moved towards the wheel, 'did you check the fuel?'

'Enough for there and back. We won't maroon him.'

He changed course and headed east, towards the open sea. The boat had radio and, after a while, Steeley tried the special wavelength that had been of such service to Frecks the day before. He seemed satisfied with the response.

Worrals looked back. Far behind them the lights of a ship could be seen close to their original course. She mentioned it.

'Probably our friend here, tipping Pereira off so he could get double rations,' Steeley assessed. 'That was always a risk.'

Despite the earlier rain, the night was now calm and the sea, though a little choppy, was not rough. A panoply of stars gazed down.

'That light's moving,' said Worrals at last, still looking back, 'coming closer, too.'

'Police,' growled the man on the floor with satisfaction. 'That's ended it for you, hasn't it? You and your clever little tricks.'

Ominously the boat now produced a searchlight, which swept the sea around it in a regular semi-circle.

'He's coming this way,' said Worrals. 'He'll be picking us up soon. I suppose it is our friend Pereira.'

'Who else?' said Steeley. 'He'd guess we'd be looking for a way to leave unofficially, even without any additional assistance.'

The man on the floor laughed harshly.

The vessel behind them was clearly a powerful patrol boat and gained on them relentlessly. The tip of the searchlight reached out closer and closer to their bows until it actually touched them and seconds later a voice, amplified by a loud-hailer, commanded them to hove to.

'Pereira,' groaned Worrals, despairingly.

Steeley ignored the call and pressed on. The instruction was repeated and a warning shot fired, though it came nowhere near them. It caused the boat owner to cry out in alarm, cutting short his jeering satisfaction.

'Listen,' said Steeley as Pereira tried for a third time, 'do you hear something else? If it's who it should be, our friend's searchlight will save us making a signal – but I'll do it anyway.'

He started to flash Morse with his torch towards the sky. Simultaneously Worrals heard the sound of aero engines and a light from above flashed back.

'Just in time, I hope,' Steeley murmured.

An amphibian began to make its approach, hampered slightly by the launch, which opened up an irregular fire, both on it and the motor boat. The aircraft swept over them and then turned, coming in so low over the launch that Worrals could imagine those on board ducking. Certainly the searchlight beam went askew. The plane came to rest fifty yards or so ahead of the motor boat and, seconds later, Steeley had guided his vessel alongside. Worrals clambered aboard.

'Careful what company you keep,' Steeley said to the owner, who had managed to loosen his bonds slightly and would be free before long, 'and give our worst wishes to your noble captain.'

He turned the boat around so that it was clear of the plane, and sent it heading towards the launch, leaping off to swim the few yards back to the aircraft.

The amphibian's crew was the same as that which had picked up Frecks. Angus and Worrals helped Steeley on board but had no time for pleasantries, for, though having to avoid the boat, now in its path, the launch was only a hundred yards away and heading straight for them.

'Away wi' you,' called Angus and Tug set the plane in motion. Several shots hit the aircraft but the launch had no heavy artillery and they did only superficial damage. Instead of ramming the plane, the launch collided with the motor boat, which was thrown into its course by the aircraft's wake and whose owner, already in an uncomfortable position, now had damage to his vessel to consider. The impact had sent Pereira plunging into the sea, Worrals noted with satisfaction. Then they were in the air and she accepted the hot tea from Angus' vacuum flask with a sigh of real relief.

'Make yourselves at home,' called Tug from the flight deck, 'and pray they don't send anything airborne after us.'

'I prayed yesterday,' said Worrals. 'The effects seem to have endured.'


	11. Dark work on the home front

**Chapter 10 - Dark Work on the Home Front**

Back in England, meanwhile, Gimlet was fretting to begin his own mission in the Faroe Islands but the need to follow up his contact with Villiers-Silver was delaying him. An invitation to a Christmas gathering at the latter's Somerset home was too good an opportunity to miss, though Copper was wary as they set off into the dark December evening.

'Wonder if there'll be a nasty surprise on the way home like there was last time,' he grumbled.

'He'd hardly be silly enough to draw attention to himself in that way,' considered Gimlet. 'He'll know we reported the previous incident and two in a row would make anyone suspicious.'

'He might think that way but some of 'is men may not.'

'They'll have been told to lay off. That clumsy effort on the road was a piece of misjudged initiative, which I'm sure infuriated him. He wants to keep an eye on me now. Assess if there's a threat.'

'I still don't like it.'

'I'm more concerned about Cub, having to act as our advance guard in the Faroes. And Trapper hasn't reported for a while. We're finding it hard to act as a unit at present.'

Trapper had been given a watching brief over Sir Simon and his cohorts. He was following two of them now, at a distance, since he thought he knew where they were going – the house set back from the road that this pair had been dropped off at after being shadowed from the Stately Home. He had been here before and discovered how to scale the wall by a helpful tree and gain entrance to the house without activating its alarms. The house was uninhabited, apart from a caretaker, and only used for confidential meetings, he supposed.

There were two cars drawn up before the entrance. There was also a dog but he had made friends with that by passing on a number of occasions and feeding it tit-bits through the gate. His scent had become so familiar that it welcomed him now, eager for its treat, which he did not fail to provide. A plentiful growth of ivy gave access to the upper floor near by the garage roof, which allowed a more secure footing. He used this facility now, easily gaining egress, and, peering carefully through a gap in hastily drawn curtains, found it hard to restrain a gasp. The room was unexceptional. A man sat at a desk just below the window. Another stood by the door, a gun in his hand. But what startled Trapper was the identity of the forlorn figure, flanked by the two men he had followed. It was a lady he had met before – the one they called Frecks. 

Huddled against a sharp biting wind, Cub Peters surveyed his surroundings. With the exception of the airport bus, waiting nearby, and the distant ferryboat, chugging towards them, there was nothing to meet his eye but rock and grass and water. His journey from the airport in the Faroe Islands had lasted for almost half-an-hour so far and he could not recall catching sight of a tree. Close by was a waterfall, leaping dramatically down a cliff to plunge into the fjord below. So common was this feature it was almost as if the land had only recently been hauled up from the ocean and the waters were still running off. A bleak, rugged place, he decided, but it had its own kind of beauty, those majestic torrents being part of it.

The ferry arrived and Cub returned to the warmth of the bus. He had only a handful of travelling companions – Faroese returning from business trips to Denmark, no doubt.

The bus trundled on to the ferry and, with a drizzle in the wind, Cub now elected to stay on board rather than enjoy more fresh air. Actually he was surprised to find the area still free of snow, since they were about two hundred miles north of Scotland and this was December. He knew, though that the Gulf Stream still mollified the extremes of cold, even in this high latitude, clearly to a significant degree.

He wondered how Gimlet was getting on. Breaking the party up had been unavoidable once the lead to Villiers-Silver was discovered; there was productive work going on there, he was sure, but he doubted if his own role would come to anything. Officially he had come to gather material for a book on the Islands and was making notes on the scenery to satisfy that end. It gave him some excuse for his real scouting mission but what and how he was supposed to scout was beyond him. So far any action had come about through ill-judged moves by the opposition, who clearly thought Raymond had more information than he actually possessed. If anything were to accrue here it would have to be from the same reason, he decided. Whether he would be connected with Gimlet, now known to their enemies, was a matter of speculation. He thought not, in which case, when Gimlet did come, he was not to make direct contact with him other than as one Englishman abroad to another.

The ferry arrived at the harbour of a small town and the bus resumed its journey to Torshavn, the capital. It seemed to Cub that one of his fellow passengers was paying more than a passing interest in him but maybe he was being a trifle paranoid. The man, thickset and dark-moustached beneath a battered old peaked hat, which might have been naval in its day, turned his head away again to stare forward. His face was expressionless.

They arrived on the wet and windy quay at Torshavn. Cub found a taxi and was soon knocking on the door of the house, whose spare apartment he was renting. A homely couple answered, the man slim and clean-shaven, his wife plump and surprisingly rosy-cheeked. They handed him the key and he made himself at home. Taking advantage of a break in the weather, he followed their directions to the nearest shop and, having purchased his initial provisions, came back to make himself a meal. Daylight had predictably perished early, he noted. It was not a lavish meal, mainly out of tins and washed down with hot tea, but it was agreeable none the less. Lying on his bed afterwards, he wondered whether he was being watched – had there been anyone at the airport they could hardly have missed him – and how he would be able to maintain contact with Gimlet. This was, he mused, a place where one could disappear very easily.

It had been the Air Commodore's idea that Frecks should return to England as soon as he heard from Lisbon of Steeley's phone call.

'The Gadfly has an enormous range,' he explained to her. 'Carrington and Mackail will be able to pick Worrals up and fly right through without returning here. If the sea's calm enough, they'll be able to come down and top-up on the way in any case if they need to. There's a B.E.A. flight in a couple of hours and there's a seat for you on it. I'll be on a RAF plane as soon as I get word of Worrals being on her way.'

'Where will the Gadfly make for?'

'It'll probably refuel in the Scilly Isles and go on to London. They should arrive sometime tomorrow, if all goes well, and you could be there to meet them.'

The flight was uneventful but Frecks endured it with conflicting emotions. How Worrals could have escaped from Pereira's grasp, she couldn't imagine but it was joyful news if true. There was still the matter of a rendezvous with the Gadfly, however – a prospect that filled her with anxiety. Still, in twenty-four hours time, they might be together again if all the plans worked out and that would be a great relief.

It was dark when she arrived at Gatwick Airport. Having nothing to declare, she was quickly through the landing formalities and looking for the sign to the railway station when she heard a voice behind her.

'Miss Lovell?'

She turned. A tall, good looking young man stood there, a peaked hat on his head.

'Yes,' she said, cautiously.

'Air Commodore Raymond thought you ought to be met.'

'That's very kind of him. Is he concerned with my comfort or my safety?'

'He didn't say. Bit of both, I expect.'

Worrals would have made some choice observations at this point but Frecks was quite willing to be pampered for once and simply smiled.

'I hope you don't mind,' the man said, a little awkwardly, 'and please don't tell anyone or I'll be in trouble, but . . . er . . .my girl-friend's also due to arrive about now and I thought, since there'll be room in the car . . .'

Frecks smiled encouragingly.

'That's all right. Far be it from me to obstruct the course of young love.'

'Ah, here she is,' he said as a young dark-haired woman approached, pushing a trolley. They kissed and the party moved to the car park.

'Where have you come from?' asked Frecks.

'Paris,' said the woman. 'No chance to shop, though, worse luck.'

They reached the car and Frecks happily agreed to go in the back so the lovers could chat in the front. There was a glass partition in between so she wouldn't overhear any of the loving conversation. With her bags safely in the boot, Frecks got in and the door was closed. There was a faint hiss as she sat down – air escaping no doubt – but, as the car drove away, she began to feel drowsy. Not surprising, perhaps, after recent tensions, but as her thoughts started to jumble, she tried to attract the attention of those in front. Suddenly it was difficult to use her arms and, as she spiralled into unconsciousness, her final impression was that of the hissing noise continuing from under her seat.

She was aware of movement as she began to come round but the car had stopped by the time she could sit up. Two men opened the back door and half-dragged, half-carried her into a building and up some stairs into a room, where, still giddy and befuddled, she felt herself dropped on to a settee. Vaguely she could hear the car that had brought her driving away and her next sensation was of two sharp slaps around the face and a growling man's voice.

'Snap out of it,' he ordered.

Frecks began to focus. She looked for the young couple who had tricked her but they had gone, presumably in the car she had heard leaving. Three burly men stood around her; a fourth sat at a table, watching her intently, his eyes, cold as a vulture's, filling her with horror.

'Give her a wet towel,' he said. 'We need her talking quickly.'

The alacrity with which this command was obeyed showed him to be a man of some authority. The towel, though, was flung at her with some force. She wiped her face with it and then was given some water to drink. She handed back the glass, which was placed on the table, and was then forced to her feet by two of the men. A third stood behind her, holding a gun. She stood facing the man at the table, her thoughts in a turmoil. That there must have been an agent of da Silva's in Gibraltar was obvious and it was hardly surprising that they should be aware of Raymond's name. But the speed of their operation was daunting.

'No-one knows you are here,' the figure at the desk was saying, 'so your only hope of being freed is to answer my questions. If we are satisfied with your responses, you will be returned to some distant place in the same manner as you have been brought here.'

'I bet!' thought Frecks. 'Spill the beans to you and my only escape will be a hole in the ground.' It was inconceivable that they should simply let her go. She had been in some tough spots in her time but none seemed more hopeless than this.

'Just a few identities is all we ask,' said the man, his voice more cultured than the others but icy with menace. 'Who gave you the material that you smuggled out to Gibraltar?'

Frecks thought for a moment.

'We did see a lot of a Captain Pereira,' she said.

Instantly, at a sign from those vulture eyes, one of the men beside her wrenched her left arm behind her back while the other once more slapped her viciously across the face. Behind her the man with the gun laughed.

'We do not have time to waste,' her questioner said, sharply. 'It will be very unpleasant for you if you do not co-operate – very unpleasant. Why endure the agonies of a broken arm when you will tell us everything in the end, anyway?'

There was a clatter from outside and the dog barked.

'See what that is,' he said to the man behind her. 'Probably just a cat but best be sure.'

The man, gun in hand, left.

'Nobody can enter these grounds without us knowing,' the man at the table explained. 'Now let me ask you again. Who gave you the information in San Miguel? And what other contacts did you make?'

Frecks did not answer. This time the backhanded blow to her face sent her sprawling on to the settee again, a cry of pain spilling from her lips.

'We haven't started to be unpleasant yet,' the man assured her. 'And scream as much as you like – the nearest people are a long long way away.'

He came from behind the desk so that when she looked up there were three grim figures staring down at her. Frecks held her face in her hands. Her nose was bleeding as a result of the blow and she tried to reach in her handbag for a handkerchief but was prevented.

'Not till you answer my questions,' the man said. 'Now . . .'

He stopped suddenly, staring at something behind her.

'Hands up,' said a new voice, with cold dispassion.

Frecks looked round and almost screamed again. There stood a figure in a long coat, his face masked by a stocking – the stuff of nightmares.

The two men who had been beside her raised their hands instantly but their leader was hesitant.

'What if I don't?' he began.

The newcomer fired and a bullet seared away a piece of jacket close to the neck, tore through the curtains and embedded itself in the window frame. The man was persuaded.

'Face down on the floor,' the voice continued. 'If I had my way you would die slowly. You, woman,' he said to Frecks, still cowering on the settee, 'take this spare gun and shoot anyone who moves.'

Frecks stood up and took the automatic she was handed.

'You bet,' she said, fear beginning to give way to anger. 'It'll be a pleasure.'

The figure took from a pocket some twine and proceeded to bind the men. He was obviously well practised in knots, thought Frecks, observing. He also removed a gun from each, then walked over to the wall and wrenched out the phone. Frecks gazed in bewilderment and still some apprehension as he motioned her outside.

On the stairs he removed the stocking and the coat.

'Ma foi,' he said, 'I wouldn't want to wear these for long.'

'You're one of Gimlet's men,' gasped Frecks in relief. 'Trapper!'

'A votre service, mademoiselle. Now I think we must depart.'

'Where did the stocking come from?'

'There are two opened suitcases inside the front door. I got it from there.'

'Then it's probably mine.'

'Better have it back, then,' said Trapper, handing it to her, a trifle sheepishly.

The contents of Frecks' cases were strewn about the floor in the hall.

'Pack quickly,' Trapper advised. 'I'll find some meat for the dog.'

'What about the other man?'

'He's sleeping. Lucky for us he came out the right door.'

It took a moment or two for Frecks to bundle her clothes inside the cases and restore a little pile of possessions to her BEA cabin bag.

'You'll never climb the fence with those,' Trapper observed, returning. 'I'll activate the front gates. We'll go out in style.'

The dog, which had been on the other side of the building when Trapper knocked its master out, growled suspiciously at their approach but the meat and Trapper's familiar smell mollified it. Laden with Frecks' luggage, they passed without incident, much to Trapper's relief, for he did not want to have to shoot the creature.

A waning moon gave them a sliver of light as they passed thankfully through the open gates and Frecks followed Trapper to where he had parked his car. She giggled slightly in her relief.

'What's so funny?' asked Trapper, who was carrying the cases.

'I was just thinking,' said Frecks, 'if it has this result, you can wear my stockings any time you like.'

Trapper clicked his tongue, an old trick he had picked up from Canadian Indians.

'They look better on you,' he said gallantly and trudged on.

The gates to the Villiers-Silver mansion were open when Copper and Gimlet approached and Copper was able to drive straight in.

'That could be useful,' mused Gimlet. 'Obviously with a party this size, it would be a bind to keep opening and shutting them. But, if you see anything that would be useful to pursue, follow it up. I can always hitch a lift with Freddie if it comes to it.'

'Right, sir,' said Copper.

Gimlet was welcomed by a rotund beaming butler, who announced his arrival with all formality. One of the first people he saw was Freddie and he greeted him immediately.

'Still in this neck of the woods, then,' said Gimlet. 'I thought you'd have been heading back to Sussex by now – Christmas by the family hearth and all that.'

'I'm off tomorrow,' said Freddie. 'My cousin's back from the States so he'll start looking after Uncle George again. Save me a heap of time in commuting.'

Villiers-Silver came over, smiling a welcome.

'Good to see you, Captain King,' he said. 'I trust you are well.'

'Can't complain. Yourself?'

'Not so bad.'

'Did you hear about the rogue lorry that nearly wrote us off after that do at Captain Ashton's?'

'No,' said Villiers-Silver, his face betraying nothing. 'It was quite foggy that night, I recall. Lot of idiots on the roads these days, of course. They'll give anyone a licence who can start and stop the thing. Much damage?'

'Negligible. My driver reacted in time, fortunately.'

'Let's hope tonight is less eventful.'

'Yes, indeed.'

They talked of trivialities for a while. Villiers-Silver went off to greet another guest and then returned.

'Kept in touch with any of your men?' he enquired, almost casually. 'Commando unit you ran, wasn't it?'

'Yes,' said Gimlet guardedly. 'I run into some of them now and then. Annual get-together – that sort of thing.'

'Must've been a pretty varied bunch.'

'All good men and true.'

'Some closer than others, I imagine. Comrades in arms often become good friends.'

'Yes,' agreed Gimlet. 'Has that been your experience, too?'

'Oh yes, oh yes,' said the other vaguely. 'Only my war was a little quieter than yours by all accounts. Oh, excuse me.'

He broke off as his butler beckoned and moved into another room. Gimlet chatted to other guests and wondered why Villiers-Silver had shown such interest. Clearly he would have marked down Copper but Cub and Trapper were unsuspected as far as he knew and he meant to keep it that way. It struck him that his host's anxieties might also embrace Freddie, which could be a useful distraction unless any more little road accidents were planned.

Whatever information the butler had conveyed had disconcerted Sir Simon, causing his smile to flicker uncertainly at times.

'Not bad news, I hope,' probed Gimlet, hypocritically.

'Business matters,' said Sir Simon. 'Problems with some of my associates.'

Below stairs, Copper was reminiscing with Freddie's chauffeur when the phone rang. Sir Simon's driver answered it and then left the room.

'Think I'll get a breath of air,' said Copper and wandered out, keeping as much out of sight as he could. Sure enough, a few moments later, the other man emerged and, eschewing the Rolls Royce, drove off in a humble Ford. Copper, sliding into Gimlet's Bentley, let him get almost to the gates before setting off in pursuit, not flicking on his lights till the other vehicle had taken a right turn into the road outside. He did likewise and settled down to follow.

Once Frecks' cases had been transferred to the boot of Trapper's car, his intention had been to drive away. He was about to start up, in fact, with Frecks beside him, when they heard the noise of another vehicle approaching.

Trapper paused, kept his lights off and waited. He had parked off the road amidst some bushes and doubted if he could be seen. The vehicle came past, driven with some urgency, but stopped for a moment at the open gates. Frecks suspected it might be the car she was kidnapped in, now returned.

'Take this gun,' Trapper said when she reported her suspicions. 'It might be instructive to hear what they are saying.'

'You're not going back in there!'

'Why not? They'll think we're well away. The last thing they'll expect is for us to stay around.'

With that Trapper faded into the night, leaving Frecks uncomfortable and alone.

Copper hadn't driven very far before he noted the car in front turning off near the railway station. Reaching the point he realised that the chauffeur had simply entered the car park of a public house. Copper was just in time to see the man disappearing into the building and soon picked out the car in the lighted forecourt.

He stopped, flummoxed for the moment. It looked as if the man had simply gone off to his local for a drink. There was no reason why he shouldn't, in fact – his master was unlikely to need him that evening. In that case there was little point in Copper remaining. He could go into the pub himself, of course, but to be seen would defeat his object and he decided to wait a while before making any further decision.

Another large car drove in from the other direction with four men aboard. It stopped right beside the building and they went in. Within a few minutes, though, the car was driving out again and back the way it had come. Copper noted, idly, that there were now three men in the back seat.

'Well, they didn't stay long,' he mused. 'Must've just dropped by to pick up their mate.'

A thought struck him and he got out of the car and walked towards the inn. He looked inside and made some purchases but a few quick glances told him his man was not there.

'Swelp me,' he growled, walking smartly back. 'Fancy falling for an old trick like that. I might 'ave guessed 'e'd expect me to come after 'im.'

Back in the car, he drove off at once in the direction the other vehicle had taken, not in any hopes of picking up its traces, for nearly ten minutes had passed since it had left, but following a hunch that he knew its destination.

'That place Trapper was 'aving a decko at's this way,' he muttered, heading out of the village. 'If that gang of toughs turns up, 'e might need a little 'elp.'

Frecks sat nervously in the car, waiting for Trapper to return. True she had a gun in her hand but it was far too dark to be sure of using it effectively and, unless her life was actually threatened, she had no inclination to fire it anyway. There might be little light but she still felt the car would be conspicuous if anyone were prowling around and, closing the door as quietly as she could, she took up a position behind a nearby tree, confident now that, even if the vehicle was discovered, she would not be.

Moments later she heard another car approaching. It passed at some speed, braking sharply to turn in at the gate. There had been no attempt to close these, which suggested that the lone occupant was expected.

More silence succeeded for a while. An owl hooted nearby; a sudden rustle in the bushes indicated a brief struggle for life and death in the animal kingdom. But the next sound was more sinister: it was a smothered cough. She made out two shapes moving stealthily towards her. They stopped by the car. She expected a torch to flick on but instead there was a muffled conference and the figures moved back to the bushes. Frecks began to ease away but suddenly felt herself grabbed from behind, her gun dropping to the floor.

Now the torch was turned on, dazzling her by its beam.

'This must be the girl,' grated a voice. 'Where's her companion, I wonder.'

'Let's ask her,' said a man to her left. That made four of them, she registered bleakly. 'Give her arm a jerk, Lefty.'

The man behind her twisted her arm up behind her back. She gasped with pain but just as it was becoming unbearable, something sang through the air, there was a startled half-grunt behind her and all the pressure ceased. Instead she could feel her captor knocking her forward slightly as he sprawled to the floor against her heel. The torch swung round, wildly. Frecks tried to run but an arm on her left clutched her.

She lashed out frantically but there came another disturbance. The man holding her was suddenly pulled away. A sound of fists succeeded and he, too, was lying on the ground. The torch flashed back again and Frecks noticed that one man had a gun. The strange whistling noise returned for an instant and the torch fell on the floor, its bearer now clutching his wrist. The gun was fired blindly, the bullet whining harmlessly into the trees, then there was another scuffle and more blows. The final man tried to pick up the torch but then sank to the ground as he too received a blow to the head.

'C'est ca,' said Trapper calmly.

'Where's the chauffeur?' came Copper's voice.

'Inside.'

'That should be it, then. There were four of 'em plus 'im.'

'Time we left, I t'ink,' decided Trapper, moving to the car. They jumped in, Frecks settling thankfully in the front, and drove away.

'Didn't expect to see you,' Copper said to her, conversationally.

Frecks explained what had happened. 'You timed your arrival well,' she finished.

'I'd been following them. Drop me off 'ere,' he added to Trapper. 'This is where I parked Gimlet's motor.'

'Be quick,' Trapper advised, looking in his mirror. There are two vehicles behind us.'

'Ho, are there?' growled Copper. 'I bought some bottles of beer in that pub earlier. See 'ow they like going over them when they're broken.'

He leapt out as Trapper stopped. Seconds later Frecks, an eye to the rear, heard the car start up and saw the sleek lines of the Bentley emerge. Copper jumped out with his bottles, which he proceeded to smash. Trapper started off again.

'If Copper's trick fails we may have to try other means of persuasion,' he said significantly.

'You can't start a gun battle in an English country lane,' said Frecks, shocked.

'They fired at us,' said Trapper simply.

Frecks gazed behind. The lights of a vehicle travelling swiftly came into view. At the last second the driver must have spied the glass, for he swerved violently to avoid it. Whether he succeeded or not was immaterial, for he lost control, bounced off a tree and came to rest with the car bonnet plunged into bushes. Too close to stop, the second vehicle caught the back of the car, spinning it round to face the way it had come, and itself crashed off the road on the other side. Trapper clicked his tongue in satisfaction.

'I hope they weren't innocent travellers,' cried Frecks, suddenly aware of that possibility.

'We won't go back to see,' said Trapper, drily.

They stopped for a conference a little further on. Copper was chuckling.

'That'll learn 'em,' he said. 'They won't go kidnapping in that car for a while.'

'There could be trouble if they're badly hurt,' Frecks pointed out.

'You might 'ave been badly hurt if Trapper 'adn't got you out,' returned Copper, 'and so might I if that bullet had 'it me. Serve 'em right fer driving recklessly in a country lane. What say you, Trapper, me ol' mate. Am I right?'

Trapper clicked his tongue.

'Every time, pal,' he agreed.

'Don't forget those cars probably carry radio,' Frecks reminded. 'If you haven't bent their aerials too much, they may still be able to communicate.'

'True,' said Trapper. 'Where now?'

'I'll get back to Gimlet,' said Copper promptly. I'll need to be safely in the house looking innocent by the time that chauffeur returns. Best take Frecks to Gimlet's, where we can all look after her.'

'I'd prefer to go to London,' said Frecks, 'especially if there's a chance of Worrals coming in tomorrow. She'll need to be warned in case they try the same stunt on her. Besides, if they're already suspicious of Gimlet, his house might be the very place they'll expect you to take me.'

'You've got something there,' conceded Copper.

'I'll drive you to London,' Trapper offered. 'I'll ring Gimlet when we're there and see what he suggests.'

'You be all right on yer own,' queried Copper. 'Maybe Trapper should stay in cooey till we know what's what.'

'Fine with me,' assented Trapper. 'How do you feel about that?'

'I'd be grateful,' said Frecks, fervently. 'You can spend the night in Worrals' room. Might get the neighbours talking for a bit but that can't be helped.'

'Right then,' Trapper said. 'We'd better be moving.'

'By the way,' asked Frecks as Copper departed, 'what were you hitting them with?'

Trapper chuckled.

'I can't carry a bow and arrow around England,' he explained. 'This is less conspicuous.'

He held up a catapult.

'Plenty of ammunition available, too.'

Copper drove back to the huge house without incident, parked the car in its previous earlier position and slipped inconspicuously inside. It was not long before people started to leave and soon it was his turn to drive to the entrance. Gimlet was shaking hands with Villiers-Silver and came down the steps to enter the car, Copper opening the door for him.

'I'm dropping into Freddie's en route for a night-cap,' Gimlet said as they drove away.

'Aye, aye, sir,' said Copper.

A few minutes later, as they passed the public house, they noticed Villiers-Silver's chauffeur with blood on his face, getting out of a car, which had a dented offside and a battered bonnet.

'Ho,' Copper intoned with satisfaction. 'He seems to 'ave met with an accident.'

'Make sure you don't,' said Gimlet curtly.


	12. Cub goes alone

**Chapter 11 - Cub Goes Alone**

From the top of steep steps in the heart of a Faroese village, Cub Peters, carefully wrapped up against the cold, surveyed the night view. He had come over from Torshavn that morning on the ferry, a stomach heaving experience on restless waves, and was now braving the evening before returning to the tiny room he had been able to rent for the night.

So far it had been a wearisome and frustrating business. He had wandered about Torshavn without any clear idea of what it was he expected to find or if anyone here would contact him. Drawing a blank in the capital, he had tried Klaksvik, enjoying a long bus ride beneath towering peaks, tumbling their waters down to the fjord below, and a brief ferry trip past a hilly island populated only by hardy sheep, still finding something to graze on even this late in the year.

They found more than Cub who, whilst adding to his notes on the scenery to support his cover story, discovered nothing else of interest and returned to Torshavn in a mood of gloomy pessimism. An uncomfortable voyage from there to Suduroy, the Southernmost island – two hours or more on a hostile North Atlantic - had also resulted in disappointment and another unpleasant trip back. At least this morning's journey had been short.

It was a peaceful enough spot, he decided, gazing across the water at the speckle of village lights on the hill opposite and following them round deeper into the fjord. Here a bend merged the lights of both sides as if it was all land there when, in fact, there were several kilometres of water to go. He amused himself for a moment, trying to discern where the divide came but gave it up after a number of attempts and concentrated instead on the harbour below him.

Snow was on the way, he understood, but only a few fishing vessels were at anchor. The others would be toiling on the seas until conditions really did become impossible. Not for nothing was every settlement he had seen built around a harbour. As he watched, a boat rounded the green light that marked the end of the breakwater and tied up on the quay. The quiet places of the earth, the Air Commodore had said. None, surely, could be more peaceful than this.

He would have been convinced that nothing criminal was or could be going on in these innocent islands had it not been for the continuing sense of being watched, that had not left him since that first day. If anything it had intensified. For one who had lived on his wits as a teenager under Nazi occupation until his meeting with Gimlet, such awareness was almost second nature. During those dark days of war his life had depended on it.

Now that instinct was fully awake. When he had gone to Klaksvik, a small red Volkswagen had followed the bus. It was parked by the ferry when he returned and dutifully escorted him back to Torshavn. In Klaksvik a tall, dark-haired bearded man had watched his every move. On the journey to the south, when he was not being sick, he had been engaged in conversation by a fellow passenger, eager to know about his project and where he was proposing to go. In both the towns in Suduroy, he had been aware of watchers. And it was still going on. If he was right, it indicated that the enemy was uneasy.

Also strange was that he had been turned out of his apartment in Torshavn, ostensibly because it was needed for someone else. When he had arrived, however, he had been assured that there was little demand this time of year and he was welcome to leave some of his luggage there while he explored the other islands.

It was cold weather for standing still so he began to descend the steps to the harbour. It had rained earlier and the road still glistened slightly under the streetlights. A stroll along the breakwater by the boats would help his thoughts, he considered, and he made his way to where they were anchored.

He was almost by the green light now, staring down the fjord at other lights, green and red, which would mean much to a sailor but not a lot to him. Hearing voices, he turned to find that two men had come to join the fishing boat that had just arrived. Its skipper had jumped ashore to talk to them but the conversation was in Faroese and he took little notice of it. He concentrated instead on the pattern of lights, twinkling in the dark beside the water, and then began to make his way back. As he came alongside the boat, its skipper called to him.

'Do you have a light?' he said in English.

'Sorry, I don't smoke,' replied Cub. 'You speak English then.'

'A little, yes.'

'How did you know I was British?'

The man smiled.

'This is a small village,' he said.

'Have you finished fishing for the day?' Cub asked, conversationally.

'But no – I have come to collect my crew. We are about to start. Come with us.'

'Not just now,' Cub said, suddenly alert, but before he could say or do anything else, he was given a tremendous push in the back that sent him on to his knees, half-sprawling towards the boat. Before he could recover, he felt his arms clutched by the two men behind him and he was dragged on board and down into a tiny cabin. He struggled but the men were brawny and soon he had his hands tied and a rough handkerchief around his mouth. His gun was removed and then they left him, bound and gagged and with a dead fish inches from his nose.

After their previous experience, Gimlet and Copper stayed especially alert during their drive through the country lanes. Copper reported the evening's events as he drove, prompting Gimlet to put through a phone call to Air Commodore Raymond, just returned from Gibraltar, once they had arrived at Freddie's.

'At least that's put him in the picture,' he said when he returned to where Freddie was pouring coffee. 'Should ensure that Miss Worralson doesn't get caught in the same way Miss Lovell was.'

'You seem to be having an exciting time,' said Freddie, handing him a cup. 'I'll keep my curiosity under wraps but if you need any assistance, let me know.'

'I'll do that,' Gimlet promised. 'You've been a useful staging post as it happens. Best keep your eyes open, though. Certain people may assume that your contact with me means that you are already assisting and that might be dangerous.'

Freddie raised his eyebrows.

'Like that, is it?' he said. 'Touch of the old days, what.'

'You can say that again,' growled Copper.

'And you think Villiers-Silver is involved,' began Freddie and then stopped himself. 'Sorry old boy, I'm probing,' he said, contritely. 'Change the subject. Going hunting over Christmas?'

'Too busy I expect,' said Gimlet. 'You'll be in the thick of it over at Wongerford, I suppose.'

'Yes. There's a meet on Boxing Day. Looking forward to it. Haven't had a ride for months.'

'Take care, then,' warned Gimlet. 'You may be watched.'

'I'll keep an eye out. Had plenty of practice during the war. Should be able to spot anyone up to that sort of game. Want me to do anything about it if it happens?'

'Just let me know,' requested Gimlet. 'It might give us a lead, as well as causing them to waste some time and resources.'

He drained his cup.

'Now we'd better be moving on. Thanks for the coffee, Freddie. I'll look you up in Sussex one day.'

'Come hunting with me. Always welcome.'

'Thanks a lot.'

'And take care, old man. This sounds like a particularly nasty bunch you're after.'

'They are,' said Gimlet. 'They are.'

The drive back to Lorrington was uneventful, except that icy patches were forming on the road and only Copper's skill at the wheel prevented them from going into a skid in places. Gimlet's servants had kept a warm fire going and Gimlet and Copper sat by this, discussing what had happened.

'A pity,' Gimlet assessed. 'Trapper had to act, of course, but it lets Villiers-Silver know that we are aware of this other house of his and are suspicious of him, at least through his chauffeur. He would have had no evidence of this at all before.'

'There is this about it,' said Copper. 'At least we know for sure 'e's involved.'

'Yes, and Trapper's certainly trumped their hand, giving us the lead and now rescuing Miss Lovell. We underestimated them there and it's caused us to play the card earlier than we would have liked. Can't be helped.'

It was three in the morning before Trapper rang to say that he and Frecks had safely arrived.

'Sounds as if Miss Worralson will have quite a reception committee when she lands,' Gimlet said, when he had rung off. 'Air Commodore Raymond, Miss Lovell and Trapper and now an old friend of Miss Worralson, Bill Ashton. Hmm – Ashton, eh. Wonder if he's related to Freddie.'

'Good,' affirmed Copper. 'That should stop them getting their hands on 'er.'

'They wouldn't recognise Trapper, you said.'

'No. Trapper reckoned he made sure they didn't see 'is face.'

'That could be useful. We'll both be known but Trapper can work as an independent agent and still be unsuspected.'

'Cub too, 'opefully.'

'Yes,' mused Gimlet, stifling the beginnings of a yawn. 'I wonder how he's getting on. I'll be glad to have some news of him.'

Cub had lain in his uncomfortable position for about an hour, when he heard footsteps behind him and felt his gag being removed.

'Call out as much as you wish,' the skipper's voice invited. 'No-one will hear you.'

'Who are you? Why have you done this?' queried Cub, though he thought he knew the answer. When it came it was enigmatic.'

'You know very well why. Now, if I untie you, will you promise to behave? You are welcome to swim ashore but we are some kilometres away from land and you would either drown or freeze.'

This was unexpected, though what the man said was undoubtedly true.

'Okay,' Cub agreed. 'Anything to get away from this fish,' he added.

The other man laughed.

'I had forgotten about that,' he confessed. 'That was a wee bit mean of me, I suppose.'

The touch of Scottish was hardly surprising with Scotland only 200 miles away. Cub rubbed his wrists vigorously once he was free to restore the circulation properly and then followed his captor on deck, astonished at this latest treatment. It didn't accord with his earlier expectations.

The sea was not as rough as he had feared, he discovered, and the others were seated on boxes enjoying coffee. A mug was thrust at him and he accepted it gratefully, the hot liquid bringing needed warmth to his chilled body.

Some lights had been rigged, swaying precariously at times, and by these he studied the two men, black-browed and bearded beneath their fishermen's hats, and their skipper, fair and lean like a Viking Chief. Replace the faded cap with a horned helmet and the effect would be complete. Another crewman was on the bridge. Beyond their vulnerable circle of light was a huge expanse of blackness, sea and sky indistinguishable, with only a few specks breaking through on the port side to indicate a Faroese village and another to starboard to show a vessel.

'One of yours,' grunted the Viking, evidently the only one who spoke English.

Cub, trying to take stock, gulped down the rest of his coffee.

'Thanks!' he acknowledged. 'Now, why have you done this? Am I being shanghaied? What's it all about?'

'Why are you here?'

'I'm researching for a book.'

'So,' said the Viking, suspiciously, 'if that is true, why do you need this?'

He produced Cub's little Mauser 38 and flourished it in the air.

'It's a dangerous place,' said Cub sarcastically. 'People grab you by the harbour and drag you on to ships.'

'You have a licence?'

'Yes.'

'For what reason?'

'Killing vermin on my father's farm.'

'For how many years have you carried this?'

'Since the war.'

'The war! You were too young.'

'I was stranded in France for a while. You aged quickly with Nazis all around you.'

This was not the kind of interrogation Cub was expecting and he was further surprised when it stopped, instead of being the prelude to more. The man simply shrugged and put the gun away.

'We'll hand this over,' he said.

'To whom?' asked Cub. 'Where are you taking me?'

'You'll soon find out.' He held out a steaming pot. 'More coffee?'

Still puzzled, Cub nodded.

A fifth crewman now appeared with a radio message for the captain. Soon afterwards the engines stopped and they anchored for a while. The cloud cover relented to admit a few stars but the moon was new, a mere silver curve like the opening of a parenthesis. Lights approached, suggesting that they had arrived at a rendezvous. Perhaps there would be more answers now.

Cub could dimly make out the other vessel as it hove to and, soon after, a small boat chugging towards them. A rope ladder was lowered and a short, stocky figure appeared, a peaked cap crowning his head. The newcomer exchanged a few muttered words with the skipper and gazed seriously at Cub's gun, which he took charge of. The skipper turned to Cub.

'You go with him,' he said.

Cub shrugged his shoulders and moved towards the rail.

'Thanks for the coffee,' he said ironically as he began his descent.

Below, hands reached up to help him into the motorboat. They sat for a moment, rocking in a sudden swell, before the stocky man, having completed his conversation with the skipper, joined them. No-one spoke during the short dark passage between the ships, a blank journey from one tiny cluster of lights to another. The ship he had left was under way again, he noticed, and apparently returning the way it had come. But there was no time for thought. Seconds later he was clambering up the side of the other vessel to be confronted by a small group of stern-looking men at the top and, within minutes, the ship was moving.

Cub was taken below to a small cabin, which boasted two bunks. He settled on the lower one while the stocky man and two taller companions sat on chairs, facing him. He had already noted that this vessel was much larger than the first with more cabins and crew. He had been able to see very little when coming aboard but had formed the impression that this was not a fishing boat.

'You will answer some questions, please,' said the stocky one, politely.

'What about?' said Cub. 'Why? Who are you?'

Far from answering questions, he had just asked three, he reflected, wryly. The response astonished him.

'This is a Fishery Protection patrolboat,' was the reply. The man flashed an ID card at Cub to confirm this. 'My name is Jens Joensen and I am in command of this ship.'

Cub gaped.

'Fishery protection!' he repeated, incredulously. 'What on earth has that got to do with me?'

'Your passport please,' said Jens.

'You're lucky I have it on me,' observed Cub, handing it over. 'When I came out for a walk, I didn't realise your friends were going to take me for a ride.'

'They were anxious about your activities – as I am.'

'What activities? All I've done is travel about.'

'Noting, no doubt, the pattern of our patrols and ways to send signals to your trawler friends at sea.'

So that was it. His face must have been a picture under Jens' steady gaze. It was all a huge mistake. Unless this was simply a ploy to get him to reveal the real purpose of his visit and Jens was being paid by others besides his ostensible employers. But it made sense. With the Scandinavian countries becoming more and more antagonistic towards British fishing boats, intruding on their domain, it must be hard for someone in Jens' position to see anything else but fish as a motive for being here.

'You're completely wrong,' he said, truthfully. 'I don't know how you got hold of that idea.'

Jens was studying his passport. He exclaimed briefly at the name and showed it to the others. One of them made a brief comment, which Cub thought he could understand. He didn't speak the language but had learnt German and French during the war and also picked up a smattering of Danish. It seemed to him the man had said jokingly, 'some relation, perhaps.' At any rate his name had clearly caused some interest.

'So, Mr Peters,' said Jens, handing the document back, 'for which fishing fleet are you working?'

Cub shook his head, helplessly.

'My only interest in fishing is with a rod and line by a quiet stream,' he said. 'Apart from that and the fact that I eat the final product from time to time, I have no other connection. Now, if I've done something illegal, tell me what it is and charge me. If not, then let me go. I already have enough to complain about to my government and yours as it is.'

Jens shrugged.

'Fish are very important here,' he explained. 'I have almost unlimited discretion in what I do to ensure the protection of our stocks.'

'Well I'm not threatening them. I can't for the life of me work out why you think I am.'

'Ha, you did not know that we were warned.'

'Warned!'

'We have had some successes lately. We were told you British would come and spy on us so you could signal your fishing boats and prevent them being caught when they contravene international law.'

'How were you warned?'

'It was reported to the owner of one of our fishing fleets a few weeks ago. So, since then, we have been keeping an eye on anyone from Britain who comes here.'

'I thought I was being watched,' Cub confirmed, suddenly alert and thinking hard. That Jens was genuine he now had no doubts but that was by no means the case with the source of his information.

'How do you know this fishing fleet owner has got it right? Who is he? What was his source? Are all British tourists likely to be subjected to this treatment?'

'You ask too many questions,' said Jens smiling. 'You should be answering.'

'I've nothing to answer,' Cub responded, 'so what happens now?'

'We think you would enjoy Christmas much more back in your own land,' Jens said seriously. 'The weather here is scheduled to be rough and unpleasant.'

'Is that a threat?'

'It may be difficult for you to find lodgings,' Jens said, with apparent inconsequence.

'So that's why I can't stay in Torshavn any more,' Cub cried, indignantly. 'You're telling people I'm in the pay of a trawler company.'

Jens smiled.

'I'm glad you appreciate the position,' he confirmed. 'Now you will be in need of some sleep. We shall have to lock the door, you understand, but you will not be ill-treated and you will probably be put ashore tomorrow.'

With that, they left and Cub heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The bunk was not uncomfortable and he realised he was tired, unsurprisingly after his active evening. There was much to think about but sleep was his first priority and that came quickly.

Some hours later, Cub awoke and, for a few seconds, wondered where he was until, sitting up, he bumped his head on the bunk above. It was a light that had awakened him, he decided, moving cautiously out of bed and over to the porthole. The ship was using a powerful searchlight and, craning his neck, he could make out the lines of a large fishing boat, caught in its beam.

'Looks as if Jens has a catch,' he murmured and, putting clothes on to protect him from an icing chill, he settled down, intrigued, to see what was going to happen. Jens was booming out a command through his megaphone, presumably to hove to, since the other ship immediately stopped its engines. The order had not been given in Faroese, he was sure, but that was hardly surprising, since only the people fishing legitimately would speak the local language. At least it wasn't an English ship he was boarding. 

The motorboat was lowered and Jens and six others went over. The vessel was in full view now and Cub could see her name. He drew in his breath as he realised it was Russian and found himself hoping, for Jens' sake, that it was a genuine trawler or the patrol might be biting off more than it could chew. One of the smallest nations in the world could hardly pick an argument with the Soviet Union, he mused, even with Danish support. That the seven men were armed, he was sure but it could still be a risky undertaking.

There was nothing unduly sinister in finding a Russian trawler in these waters, he told himself, any more than a British one. He wondered wryly if there was a Russian tourist locked up in one of the other cabins. Instinctively unwilling to turn on his light and thus betray his wakefulness, he groped in his pocket for the small diary he carried. Finding a pencil he opened it at an empty page, confirming this by placing it against the porthole, and copied down the name of the trawler, taking care with the Cyrillic characters. Then he slipped diary and pencil back into his pocket and, though now very cold despite his clothes, continued to observe.

He was relieved when he saw the boarding party coming back. The searchlight remained on and Cub noted the trawler skipper leaning over the rail watching them. Not till they were aboard and the light had been switched off did Cub slide back into his bunk and the welcoming warmth.

He was wakeful now, though, and his mind was active. He was certainly learning more here than if he had been left to spend his night quietly in the room he had booked. When the searchlight went on again about twenty minutes later, he had still not dropped off. This time it was a Faroese vessel and Jens just exchanged a quick word of greeting across the waves before turning the light off again. Cub, though, was quick enough to jot down this boat's name, too – to what purpose he didn't know but it would do no harm to have a record. Back in the bunk again, he tossed and turned for a while but he was asleep before any further encounters could be made and, if there were any more, they went on without his knowledge.

It was still dark when Cub woke again but he sensed it was morning and this was confirmed when he heard the door being unlocked and the light was switched on. Nearly nine o'clock, his watch said.

'You will breakfast with the captain,' said the burly seaman who entered. He escorted Cub to the toilet facilities and then to the dining area where Jens was awaiting him.

'I'm sorry it is so late,' he apologised. 'There are sometimes things to do in the night.'

'So I noticed,' Cub admitted. 'Your searchlight woke me up a couple of times.'

'Do not worry, we stopped none of yours. They either fished where they should or kept out of our way.'

'Wouldn't bother me if you had,' Cub confessed freely. 'If they're breaking the law, you have a right to catch them.'

'I hope you mean that,' said Jens, shrewdly.

'Certainly. I'm sure we'd take a dim view of it if your ships came poking round our shores, emptying all our fishing beds. But then,' Cub added, disarmingly, 'I'd be bound to say that anyway.'

Jens laughed.

'If you are not what we suspect, then I must apologise for treating you the way we have. I can take no chances, though, you understand.'

'But why kidnap me? You could have had this interview just as easily on shore.'

'And would have done. Captain Simmonsen acted on impulse, you see. I am happy to apologise for that. It was never our intention that you should come to sea with us. We'd rather keep this little incident private if we can.'

'Are you bribing me to silence with a healthy breakfast?' Cub smiled.

'I'm trying to,' said Jens, returning the smile. 'I've warned Captain Simmonsen that he could be in trouble if his actions are reported so he and his crew will say nothing and your host in the village thinks you were called away suddenly to Torshavn for the night, so we have covered our tracks.'

A steward appeared with two hot breakfasts. An appetising aroma filled the air. Cub sniffed appreciatively. Jens laughed.

'You are welcome to the meal in any case,' he said. 'We owe you that. I'm sorry we had to lock you up but we couldn't have you wandering about the vessel as you pleased.'

'Thank you,' acknowledged Cub and, choosing his words carefully to give no undertaking he wasn't willing to fulfil, ' I promise not to complain about my treatment.'

Despite the roll of the vessel, he began to eat with some relish.

'By the way,' he asked between mouthfuls, 'if it wasn't a British ship you stopped last night, whose was it?'

'He was just outside the limit,' said Jens, not answering Cub's exact question. 'He had probably been fishing inside but was aware of us in time. Unless we catch them inside, we have no evidence. And we have to – how do you say – play the game?'

'Yes,' Cub confirmed and continued to enjoy his meal, whilst remaining alert to the probing of his questioner. Jens asked about his gun and his wartime experiences, causing Cub to answer evasively, aware that a connection with Gimlet was best kept under wraps.

'This gun is a mystery,' Jens mused, apparently to himself. He poured Cub some coffee. 'You would not need it for research but you would also not need it for spying on our activities. Your trawlermen are not so ruthless – it would be outside the rules.'

Cub ate and made no reply.

'And you have a permit,' Jens continued. 'Yet you did not come here to shoot our rats, I think.'

Cub reached for the coffee, wary of where this was leading.

'You are not a bank robber, I suppose,' Jens went on. 'And why would you come here for that in any case? You would never be able to get away. So perhaps you need this weapon for defence, ha? Against whom? This is one of the safest places in the world. People leave their doors unlocked so the postman can put the mail on the kitchen table. Why would you be in any danger here? Unless, of course . . .' He paused dramatically. Cub gulped down some coffee. 'Unless you are working as some kind of agent for someone.'

'Just research,' said Cub, truthfully he thought, since it was only the nature of his interest that he kept hidden.

'But then,' concluded Jens with a laugh, 'if you are an agent, you are not likely to tell me anyway.'

'No,' agreed Cub.

Jens applied himself to his breakfast again.

'But who would you be seeking?' he queried between chews. 'You have made no contacts while you have been here.'

'Except you,' corrected Cub, now concerned at the acute reasoning of the other, which had come very close to the truth.

Jens laughed.

'Ah yes – and what have you learnt from me?'

'That the Faroes has an efficient fishery patrol,' Cub smiled. 'Incidentally, am I the only British person here at the moment? Are you watching others also?'

'They are not behaving in as suspicious a manner. Someone coming, moving around, observing, noting, probing. That's who we were warned to look out for.'

'Yes, I can see how I might fit that bill.'

'Whatever you are, you will be on a plane to Denmark tomorrow. From there you will find a connecting flight back to England. Your tickets have all been arranged.'

Jens gulped down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

'As I said earlier, none of this will be reported. Your voyage and our meeting have officially never taken place.' He paused at the door. 'I'm interested only in the fishing boats, you understand.'

'And foreign ones at that,' added Cub. 'I'd imagine your own ships would be pleased to see you working on their behalf.'

'Not always. Not last night, for instance . . .'

Jens stopped himself, aware that he might have been indiscreet.

'There are still some mysteries out here,' he remarked.

'Such as why a local fishing boat should want to avoid you?'

Jens smiled.

'You have answered very few of my questions,' he said. 'I will not answer any more of yours.'

He gave Cub a piercing glance. The ship lurched suddenly as it hit a wave more boisterous than its fellows. Jens steadied himself with the easy motion of one accustomed to a temperamental ocean.

'We may meet again,' he said seriously, and left, leaving Cub to finish his meal and wonder if he should have risked confiding in him more.

'We may at that,' he murmured, thoughtfully.


	13. Reporting back

**Chapter 12 - Reporting Back**

Flakes of snow were beginning to fill the air as Biggles circled the RAF. Base, waiting for two Hunters to land before following them down. Air Commodore Raymond sat beside him, whilst Worrals and Frecks occupied the passenger seats.

'Ah, some of the others have arrived, I see,' said Biggles, taxiing up to stop by the Gadfly.

'Our favourite plane at the moment,' commented Worrals from behind him. 'We've both been relieved to see it this last week.'

As they entered the station buildings, Biggles turned to watch another Auster coming in to land.

'This should be Bertie,' he said, 'with Gimlet King and Copper, I hope. Nicely on time.'

'Welcome to East Anglia,' said a voice behind him, familiar even though he hadn't heard it for years.

'I believe you've met Group Captain Wilkinson,' Raymond smiled.

'Wilks, old son! How are you?' Biggles said, shaking hands with his wartime comrade. 'Haven't seen you since that business in the Sudan. Are you in charge here?'

'Hello Biggles, old scout,' said Wilks. 'Yes, for the time being, though I'm supposed to have been retiring for the last year or so.'

'We rather thought it would be good to keep it in the family, so to speak,' Raymond explained. 'Save lengthy explanations to a commander who didn't know us.'

'So that's why you picked here for the conference.'

'Absolutely. Not as luxurious as a Stately Home but more secure, I trust.'

'And a spot of lunch to start with,' added Wilks. 'Still some turkey and Christmas pud left over. If you have to work on Boxing Day, at least it'll be on a full stomach. But I don't recall meeting these ladies before.'

The Air Commodore introduced Worrals and Frecks.

'I think I've heard of you,' Wilks began enthusiastically, 'Didn't . . . '

'Tread carefully, Wilks,' murmured Biggles.

'Very pleased to meet you,' amended Wilks, taking the hint. 'And that's Lissie arriving, I see. Party's almost complete.'

He led them to the officers' mess, a large, spacious house within the base perimeter, built, clearly, with a view to accommodating gentlemen and catering for their comfort. The main eating area was on the ground floor but Wilks showed them upstairs to a lounge, where some tables had been put together in the centre of the room amidst arm-chairs and settees. A crackling wood fire dispensed heat to combat a rapidly chilling day and, enjoying its attributes, Ginger, Algy and Smyth rose to welcome them. Standing by the window were Tug and Angus, whom Frecks greeted warmly.

'Guid to see you, Lassie,' said Angus. 'How's it been since we picked you out of the sea? And how did ye get that wee bruise on your face?'

'The old cliché of frying pans and fires suggests itself,' answered Frecks. 'I'll tell you more later.'

'So, you're some of the reinforcements,' said Biggles, beaming as he shook hands. 'Can't anyone settle to a quiet life these days?'

'Air-sea rescue's our latest trick,' said Tug. 'You get into the scrapes; we pull you out. Ladybirds a speciality.'

Steeley was last to arrive with Cub and Trapper. Wilks joined them all for a relaxing and chatty meal.

'Thought it would be more private up here than downstairs,' he said. 'The Air Commodore was keen to keep identities under wraps as much as possible, though Biggles and I go back so far, there'd be nothing strange about him dropping in for a chin-wag at this season.'

Raymond nodded approval and turned to Steeley as they sat down.

'Hope you don't feel out of it, Delaroy,' he said. 'I half expected you to bring your old companions, Wilde and Ballantyne along. I'm sure we could have used them.'

'Tubby's too domesticated nowadays, I think,' said Steeley, ' and it would have been cruel to bring Brian, a newspaper reporter, face to face with a red-hot story he wasn't allowed to report.'

'I'm grateful to your wife for sparing you for the project.'

'Fortunately she's very understanding and patient.'

'Yes, she must be,' said Worrals, overhearing, a faint smile on her face.

After the meal the trestle tables and dining chairs were removed and they settled down on softer furnishings to enjoy coffee, forming a semi-circle around the cheerful fireside. Outside, as Biggles noted, it was snowing in earnest.

'We're here all right,' he remarked seriously, 'but I wouldn't fancy flying home in this.'

'We can always accommodate you if needs be,' assured Wilks. 'Nothing lavish but it should be snug enough.'

He stood up.

'I'll leave you to it,' he said. 'Anything you need, just sing out.'

'Yes we'd better get under way,' said Raymond as soon as the door had closed. 'Sorry about the elaborate precautions but I felt that if we all came by air, there was less chance of any of us being followed and here, at least, we are in secure premises. I'll ask each team to give a report but no names no pack drill as they used to say. The fewer the people who know the identity of our agents the better and the experiences of Miss Worralson and Miss Lovell show just how much our adversaries would like to get hold of that information.'

Biggles began, though he soon handed over to Ginger for the details of Sidlington's conference with his men. There was no mention of Anna but the drama at the river was recounted, mainly, as Biggles pointed out, to show the kind of people they were up against.

'We knew from our last meeting that they had aircraft,' he finished, 'but to be able to summon up a makeshift bomber at short notice in a remote area of the world shows organisation of a quite menacing level. There's also the matter of stirring up gangs of Islanders to commit murder at his bidding.'

'He claims, of course, to know nothing about that,' put in the Air Commodore. 'That inspector you met went down to have a word with him, ostensibly to warn him that he might be in danger. Sidlington says it was probably raiders from one of the back villages. Suggested the plane might belong to a foreign power, intent on fermenting trouble.'

'How about Crazy Jim?'

'Safely in custody again and back in this country. We packed him on to a RAF. flight as soon as we could.'

'That was wise. He might have escaped again out there – or been silenced for good. Sidlington's bound to be worried about what he might say. And he'll know he's under suspicion now, even if he isn't sure just how much Ginger overheard.'

'That may also depend on what he's been told,' Ginger pointed out. 'Sam was supposed to have checked to make sure there weren't any eavesdroppers so he might hold back on some information to prevent himself getting into trouble. I think the attempt to kill me at the pit was spontaneous, not planned. Even the ambush may have been set up by Sam's friends without Sidlington's knowledge. He wanted any deaths to seem like accidents. Drowning was his bright idea.'

'Hence the attack by the river,' added Biggles. 'If we'd been swept away in that torrent and into the sea, our bodies might never have been found. But for Algy and Bertie that might have been the case.'

'And his department, so to speak,' Raymond continued, 'appears to be student unrest and miscellaneous assassinations. And who's going to suspect that the source of an incident in Europe or America is to be found in a remote island half the world away? Especially when they have the facility to transport people at will. This Crazy Jim's recent jaunt to the Western Pacific proves that. Fortunately that list you acquired should enable us to nip many of these schemes in the bud.'

Attention turned to Worrals and Frecks as they summarised their experiences.

'Unlike Inspector Bigglesworth,' Worrals ended, wryly, 'I don't even know what information I've returned with.'

'Some interesting holiday snaps, I hope,' said Steeley.

'Very interesting,' confirmed Raymond, 'but you were in grave danger at times – still are by all accounts.'

'No more than Inspector Bigglesworth by the sound of it,' cut in Worrals acidly.

'Yes, yes – quite so, quite so,' said Raymond hurriedly, 'but I'm still very relieved that you're both safe and that our rescue plans worked.'

'I'm pleased to hear about von Zoyton,' put in Biggles. 'I remember saying after our last encounter that he wasn't a bad chap at heart. Useful fellow to have around if there's any air-work to be done. Where is he by the way?'

'He should be back from Gibraltar this evening,' Raymond replied, 'and the information Miss Lovell brought with her is most useful, detailing a number of names that can be pursued. But our chief treasure is the film Miss Worralson took of da Silva's papers, all the more valuable, since it appears that he is unaware that they have been seen.'

He looked at Worrals gravely.

'You took an incredible risk there, my girl,' – Worrals seemed about to explode – 'but the results have been invaluable. We still haven't fixed identities for all these Shakespearean names yet. Cordelia is still a puzzle and the Ides of March sounds particularly ominous. Nevertheless, thanks to you we know infinitely more about this organisation and its plans than we did before. Even the codes they use are in our hands now. '

'Don't forget Steeley,' Worrals pointed out. 'He set me up and brought me out afterwards.'

'My pleasure,' said Steeley, gallantly.

'Significantly,' Raymond remarked, 'no complaints have been received from the Portuguese authorities about English ladies stealing aircraft or escaping from custody and being helped to evade the police by a British seaplane. Obviously Captain Pereira prefers not to be the subject of official attention.' He smiled faintly. 'So, despite your best efforts, ladies, our relations with our oldest ally remain unimpaired.'

Copper, who was nearest, fed a huge log on to the fire, which was starting to flag. It revived immediately.

'I suppose our Mr Silver ain't related to this Portuguese geezer,' he commented, sitting down again.

'He has been identified as the other man with da Silva in the framed picture Miss Worralson photographed,' Raymond confirmed.

'Silver and da Silva,' snorted Copper. 'We were slow working that one out, my oath we were.'

'Silva in Latin means a wood,' Biggles pointed out. 'Similar sound but very different meaning. A case of a little knowledge getting in the way,' he added, ruefully.

Gimlet spoke.

'What about this information Trapper overheard after he had rescued Miss Lovell?' he queried.

'Yes, I was coming to that,' said Raymond. 'Perhaps Troublay would summarise that for us.'

'There isn't very much,' admitted Trapper. 'Once the young couple had released everyone, they went off to send a radio message from their car. There was no thought of pursuit. As I expected, they thought we were miles away by then. While they were gone, someone asked if they would still be going ahead and their leader – the one who had been interrogating Frecks – mentioned the name of an RAF, base in the Midlands and joked that they'd still be able to make its Boxing Day go with a bang. Then the others returned with news of a carload of reinforcements on the way and I thought I'd better rejoin Frecks before things became unhealthy.'

'You were only just in time,' said Frecks earnestly.

'Troublay's initiative has borne fruit,' Raymond said. 'We warned RAF. Bisington to be on extra alert and gave a general warning to other stations. I learnt over lunch that they apprehended an intruder whose plan was clearly to sabotage one of our latest jet fighters. The man escaped, unfortunately, with the assistance of armed accomplices but at least the attempt has been foiled.'

He turned to Trapper.

'Good work, Troublay,' he acknowledged. 'All the progress we have made in this country has been thanks to your special skills. Captain King's team has been performing wonders on the home front.'

Cub's report came last.

'I don't seem to have achieved very much,' he apologised, when he had finished. 'While you've had all the excitement, I've just been for a bit of a cruise. Instead of locating the enemy, I was picked up by the authorities.'

'I don't see how you could have done any more,' said Gimlet, re-assuringly. 'This Jens seems to be a good man doing a difficult job for his country. Can't really fault him for his conduct.'

'These two fishing boats you saw in the night,' probed the Air Commodore. 'Did it strike you that the Faroese vessel might be on its way to a rendezvous with the Russian trawler?'

'I did wonder about that, yes,' agreed Cub.

'You did well to jot the names down,' continued Raymond. 'We've been able through Interpol, to trace the owner of the Faroese ship – a man called Pedersen – Olaf Pedersen.'

'Oh,' gasped Cub. The others looked at him, expectantly.

'Is the name familiar?' asked Raymond.

'It's just some comment made to Jens when I showed my passport; something about 'could be a relation' and then a laugh. Pedersen is like Petersen – and Peters.'

'By Jove,' said Gimlet, 'so it is.'

'So you think it might have been this Pedersen who told Jens to suspect any British visitors looking around of being connected with our trawlers,' said Raymond, thoughtfully.

'I can't see why they would have made the remark otherwise,' said Cub. 'They reacted as if it was some kind of coincidence and it wouldn't be that simply because of Pedersen's fishing interests.'

'And from what you've said,' put in Biggles, ' your being snatched by those fishermen and presented to Jens wasn't part of the plan at all.'

'No. Jens realised that Simmonsen had acted illegally and was trying to hush the whole thing up. Obviously the Faroese fishermen had been tipped off to keep their eyes open and he acted on the spur of the moment.'

'Then that means that Pedersen doesn't know you were on Jens' vessel when he stopped the Russian trawler and spotted his own boat later,' Raymond considered.

'Not if Jens was successful.'

'Then he may have achieved exactly what he wanted to avoid. Thanks to your over-hasty kidnapper, you may have given us an important lead.'

Biggles laughed.

'It's just like wartime when we'd fly over a wood where there were troops hiding. There was always one of them that would take a pot shot at us and betray their presence, whereas if they'd all stayed hidden, we'd never have suspected they were there.'

'What we have discovered,' said Raymond, summarising, 'is that we are up against ruthless opponents whom, despite our best efforts, we have been prone to underestimate. Hence today's precautions. One key thing is that we now have four identities to work on: Villiers-Silver, Sidlington, da Silva and Pedersen. And we may have a fifth later,' he added, enigmatically.

There was a silence. Wilks returned to see if they wanted more coffee. Biggles stood up and moved over to the window. A road passed the base the other side of the perimeter fence. A car struggled by in a flurry of snow as Biggles watched. Just inside, an airman, huddled up against the cold, patrolled with a watchful alsation.

'Looks secure enough,' said Biggles, returning to his seat, 'but the quickest way in is always through the front door.'

'Or from the air,' added Steeley. 'You wouldn't turn away a plane in trouble, I suppose.'

'We try to stay alert,' smiled Wilks. 'No-one's successfully infiltrated the place while I've been here.'

There was a sharp rap on the door and, before Wilks could say anything, it opened to reveal a tall man, immaculately dressed but with greying hair, standing on the threshold. He stepped inside, walking with a slight limp.

'Who the . . .' began Wilks but Biggles stopped him.

'Wilks,' he began, 'I'd like to introduce an old enemy of mine, and more recently a friend, Erich von Stalhein, who has just strolled straight through your security checks without a whisper.'

Wilks shook hands like a man in a daze.

'How did you manage it?' he asked.

'It was simple,' said von Stalhein in his clipped precise manner. 'I drove up in a taxi, told your guards I had come to the special meeting you had organised, refused to say with whom, since I felt that was confidential, and apologised for being too late for lunch because of the dreadful weather.'

'So, there you are, Wilks,' said Biggles, turning to him, 'see how easy it can be to bluff your way through if you act with complete confidence.'

'Von Stalhein knew about the meeting, though – from you, obviously. No outsider would have been aware of it.'

'We hope not,' put in Raymond seriously, 'but we can never be totally sure. Had von Stalhein been up to mischief, you would now have a problem on your hands. And the people we are up against have proved to be remarkably resourceful so far.'

'I'll give orders that no other visitors are to be admitted to the base without my specific permission.'

He rang through from a phone in the corner of the room and issued the instruction.

'It happens that the man you allowed in was bone fide,' he stressed, 'but we can't be too careful.'

Then the voice from the other end caused his expression to change to one of bewilderment, moving to deep concern.

'What other chap?' he snapped. The others became suddenly attentive. 'When was this, before or after the man with the limp? . . . I see. Right – full security alert. Contact all sections and give the description. Top priority.'

He rang off and rubbed his hands across his face. Suddenly he was perspiring. He turned to face the room.

'Another man entered the base, claiming to be coming to a meeting,' he informed them, ' ten minutes before von Stalhein.'

'Well,' said the Air Commodore, musing to himself it seemed. 'I wonder how the devil they managed that.'

'Take Trapper with you,' said Gimlet as Wilks made to leave the room.

'Right,' said Wilks. He looked back wanly. 'We'll find out how efficient our intruder seeking procedure is now. Never needed it before.'

'Some of us better stop here,' said Raymond, 'and make sure he hasn't got into any of these upper rooms. Von Stalhein managed it without any trouble.' His brow furrowed. 'You didn't see anyone outside the door or on the stairs as you came in, von Stalhein,' he added, anxiously.

'No.'

'Then he didn't overhear our discussion,' said Raymond with relief.

'What's your procedure?' asked Biggles as they descended the stairs.

'We're all allocated certain areas to search,' Wilks replied. 'We have drills from time to time to ensure that we know our own areas particularly well. Actually, since most of you are strangers, you'd better keep with me or my chaps will think one of you is the offending party.'

'Good thinking.'

'Don't blot out the tracks,' warned Trapper. 'They should be quite clear in the snow.'

Only two people had walked in from the gate since the snow had come. Trapper discerned that one had a limp, which immediately suggested von Stalhein, so they followed the other tracks, which, being less distinct, showed they had been made earlier, with more white flakes already beginning to obscure them. Trapper noted the pattern of the soles and guided the others unerringly towards the hangers.

'Go wiv a bang,' recalled Copper. 'There's a bomb in the offing 'ere, swelp me if there ain't.'

To her disgust Worrals had been left in the room, together with Frecks, Raymond and von Stalhein.

'You are civilians now,' pointed out the Air Commodore, gently when Worrals protested. 'This is a matter for the Air Force and the Police.'

'Steeley isn't police, nor are Gimlet King and his men,' she pointed out with asperity.'

'Well, some of us had to stay,' said Raymond feebly.

Drawing a Luger, which he had also managed to bring on to the base, von Stalhein proceeded to search the other upstairs rooms with the methodical thoroughness that had always marked his activities. He was some time and came back to announce that he would stay in the corridor, since it gave a good view of some of the area outside. Worrals gazed out of their own window, seeing once more the dog handler going by.

'Don't expect there'll be much of a scent in all this snow,' she commented.

A car swished past. She watched it carefully, not so much with any special grounds of suspicion as a general air of alertness, since there seemed nothing else she was to be permitted to do. She was there for some moments when a new development drew her attention.

'Any luck old man?' a cultured voice asked from outside the door.

'No,' came von Stalhein's curt reply.

'Unlikely to come over here, surely.'

Von Stalhein grunted but inside the room Frecks, who had just picked up her handbag, furrowed her brow in thought.

'That voice,' she said, 'I'm sure I've heard it recently.' She went over to the door and opened it. An Air Force officer stood there, about to descend the stairs. Frecks was about to step back but stopped.

'Hey,' she cried.

The man looked over his shoulder for an instance and then continued his descent, quickening his pace. It took a second for full recognition to come to Frecks but that was all. The vulture eyes were all the confirmation she needed. It was the man who had interrogated her days earlier.

'Stop that man,' she called out urgently.

Without pausing he pulled out a gun and fired at her. She flung herself to the floor as he did so but still felt the passage of the bullet close to her arm. He fired again but this time von Stalhein's Luger answered and the man tumbled down the final stairs to finish in an untidy heap at the foot, dropping his gun in the process.

Cautiously Frecks raised her head, hearing the urgent tones of Worrals' voice behind her.

'Frecks – are you all right?'

Frecks picked herself up, somewhat gingerly.

'Yes,' she said shakily, gazing at a bullet hole in her handbag. 'I wasn't hit but it was uncomfortably close.'

Worrals looked meaningfully at Raymond.

'This is what comes of you keeping us out of danger, is it?' she said with scathing sarcasm.

Von Stalhein had descended the stairs, his Luger trained on the intruder, who was making painful efforts to stir. Blood seeping from his right shoulder showed where he had been hit. Next moment Wilks and his party dashed in.

'Got him, by Jove,' said Bertie, regarding the figure with satisfaction.

'Relieve the men on the gate and bring them here,' Wilks ordered. An officer sped away. 'Make sure this is the fellow they meant,' he added to the others.

Two airmen soon appeared.

'That's him,' one confirmed immediately. 'He was wearing a coat before, though.'

'He was carrying a briefcase too,' said the other. 'Where's that?'

Wilks turned to the man, still clutching his shoulder and trying to stand.

'Where is it?' he snapped.

Despite his pain, the man laughed harshly.

'That's something you'll have to find out,' he said, wincing as he did so. 'But don't worry. You'll know exactly where it is soon enough.'

'Take him to the hangers,' suggested Trapper, softly.

The man's expression changed dramatically.

'Good idea,' said Gimlet, sharply. 'Bring that man along, Corporal.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Copper, acknowledging his former rank.

'That's if it's all right with you, sir,' Gimlet added, turning to Wilks and the Air Commodore.

'Go ahead,' invited Wilks. 'I'll come with you.'

'We don't want too many with a bomb about to go off,' Gimlet pointed out. 'Copper and I should be able to cope.'

Wilks, though, as commanding officer, insisted on going with them and was able to help with the task of half dragging, half carrying the man, who was crying out, partly in pain from his wound, partly in terror. They trailed a ragged path through the snow towards the hanger to which Trapper had traced his steps earlier and went in.

'Now where is it?' demanded Gimlet.

'There, there – by that plane,' gasped the man, almost incoherent with fear and gesturing with his unharmed arm to the nearest Hunter. Without hesitation Gimlet ran towards it.

'Under the wing,' called Wilks.

'When's it going off?' growled Copper to his prisoner. 'I'll put you beside it if you don't tell me.'

But the man had fainted.

'What a hero!' Copper sneered. 'Okay when it comes to bullying women but 'e's not so 'ot when 'e's on the receiving end.'

He gazed towards Gimlet as he marched out of the hanger, a capacious briefcase by his side.

'Look at 'im,' he added, trying to mask his obvious anxiety. 'Setting off as if 'e's just late for the office.'

'Why doesn't he run?' Wilks fretted.

'Doesn't want to take a chance on jolting the bomb, I expect.'

Some of the others had come out to join them, all eyes riveted to the lean lonely figure striding away from the building. Soon the snow obliterated him. No-one spoke. Dull daylight was ending and a winter twilight was setting in, making visibility still more restricted. Accustomed as he was to Gimlet's qualities, Cub still found himself marvelling at his old C.O.'s iron nerve and apparent imperturbability. In the tense silent moments, he felt he could hear his own heartbeats thudding into his ears. Oblivious to the falling snow he and the others had stepped outside to stare impotently into a remorseless white veil.

When the explosion came, its huge crump softened by the snow and seeming to echo behind them seconds later, it was as if they had been wakened from a trance. The immediate intake of breath was universal, then they were running, running forward, running desperately, Cub and Copper outstripping the rest with Trapper close behind.

The sight they were praying to see soon met them: Gimlet, strolling back as if he had been engaged in nothing more exciting than an afternoon walk.

'You okay, skipper?' called Copper.

'This suit'll need dry-cleaning,' complained Gimlet. 'The blast from that damn bomb knocked me over. Disgusting business. Who's with the prisoner?' he added as the others joined them.

'Oh,' said Wilks, cut short as he was about to begin congratulations, 'we were so concerned about you that . . .'

'Someone go and check,' snapped Gimlet and Trapper and Cub ran off immediately.

'Close run thing, what,' said Wilks, obviously much relieved.

'Not really. I could hear it ticking most of the time. Gave me the chance to find a soft spot for it. Damn thing stopped after I let it go. Just got far enough away. Busted up your bushes I'm afraid. Had twigs all over me at one stage.'

Cub came running back.

'He's gone,' he called.

Copper swore.

'Foxing all the time,' he said. 'Who'd 'ave thought it?'

Unlike most of the others, who, after milling round irresolutely for a while, had drifted off to the hangers, Biggles had returned to the warm room. Worrals and Frecks were there with the Air Commodore, and von Stalhein joined them.

'So that's Gimlet,' said von Stalhein, sitting down. 'I heard his name during the war. It inspired fear. He and his commandos were a menace to us in France. A brave man. And a little harder than you, I fancy, Bigglesworth.'

'Had to be in his job,' said Biggles. 'But since our visitor might have killed Frecks moments before, I've no qualms about the way Gimlet treated him.'

'Not to mention his earlier conduct,' added Frecks. 'His is one face and voice I'm not likely to forget in a hurry.'

'A good job you remembered them now,' said Raymond, softly. 'Wonder where he got the uniform from. Strolled in here as calmly as you like.'

'Not quite calmly,' said Biggles. 'I'm not sure he actually planned to come in here. Once he'd planted his bomb he'd want to be away. I think Wilks' search parties were coming too close. They'd spot a stranger in uniform if we wouldn't. He'd put on the bold front, of course – the only way he'd get away with it – but I think he came up here looking for a place to lie low for a while. Instead he ran into the one person who had more cause to recognise him than most.'

'Biggles!' Worrals called from the window. 'Come here a second, would you?'

'What's the problem?' asked Biggles, moving across.

'That car just going by – I'm sure I saw it not so many minutes ago.'

'Hmm – blue Triumph Herald. I think I've seen it too – just before von Stalhein arrived. Looks as if our visitor has friends and transport in the offing.'

'Did you see its number?' asked Raymond.

'Too far away,' said Worrals. 'And it was all snowed over anyway.'

'Yes, I'll bet it was.'

Biggles moved towards the door.

'Think I might go for a walk,' he decided, 'outside the perimeter fence. See if there's anything interesting there.'

'I'll come with you,' offered Worrals. 'I need some air. Besides, a man and woman together may seem less suspicious.'

'Romantic even,' suggested Frecks. 'Two lovers, oblivious to the elements, lost in each other.'

'You watch too many films,' Worrals complained and she and Biggles went to collect their coats.

'Should be an easy enough trail to follow,' said Wilks when they were all back at the hanger. 'His wound wasn't faked. There's spots of blood every few yards.'

'Yes, he won't have got far,' said Algy.

'These are heavy footsteps,' Trapper contributed, following the trail. 'He is staggering, I think.'

'I'm glad to see Tug and Angus again,' Biggles said as he and Worrals trudged through thickening snow. 'Two of the best.'

'They were a welcome sight,' Worrals agreed, 'but it was Steeley who worked wonders when we were up against it. A pretty elaborate contingency plan but, my word, it was needed.'

She laughed suddenly.

'And if Captain Pereira had only let us alone,' she added, ' we'd have come home with only half the info.'

'Your friend Frecks has had an exciting time,' Biggles assessed. 'Shot down, shot at, abducted – Raymond certainly knows how to look after a girl!'

'What about you?' queried Worrals. 'Attacked by machetes, bombed, in danger of drowning in a wild river – you've had your moments too.'

'Well, let's hope there aren't many more of them. I'm getting too old for all this.'

'That's what Steeley said. Doesn't stop you doing it.'

Biggles smiled faintly.

'No,' he conceded, 'it doesn't. And, by the same token, presumably you knew what to expect when Raymond rang.'

'I wasn't cut out to be a shorthand-typist,' Worrals agreed.

They crossed the road, feeling less conspicuous with trees and bushes beside them and straining to see any sign of the car they suspected could still be around.

'Do you think they knew about our meeting?' asked Worrals, 'or is it just a coincidence that he turned up here with his little present?'

'Not just here,' reminded Biggles. 'Trapper alerted us to their plans for Bisington so they've obviously targeted other bases as well. They'd have guessed there was some sort of meeting here by the number of non-military planes arriving but it's clear that fellow didn't know Frecks was in the offing or he'd never have given himself away like that.'

'That's what I thought. Hallo,' she added suddenly, lowering her voice, 'there it is.'

Stepping away from the road, they edged carefully forward behind a ragged bramble that afforded a modicum of cover. Snow accumulating on their coats also helped them to blend with the white background. Biggles stopped and crouched down, tapping Worrals on the shoulder as he did so. She followed suit. Across the road two shapes were bent against the perimeter fence. As Biggles and Worrals watched, the men stood up and returned to their car.

'Move back,' whispered Biggles urgently, and they withdrew to take up positions behind a solid old oak. For a moment or two nothing happened. The bleak scene seemed unalterable, as if painted on a card. An uncanny silence prevailed, sinister and expectant, waiting for some signal to change.

It was shattered by the noise of an explosion and before Biggles could whisper his concerns about Gimlet and Wilks another came from much closer, scattering snow and debris either side of them.

The car had evidently kept its engine running, for it moved up to what was now a hole in the fence. As it did so, Biggles moved forward again and at an angle that would take him towards its rear.

'Stay here,' he said to Worrals as she began to follow, 'there might be shooting.'

'I can shoot.'

'Not without a gun you can't – and I've only got the one.'

He completed his manoeuvre without being seen, partly because the attention of the men was concentrated on the area beyond the gap. Two of them waited by it whilst a third remained behind the wheel, staring forward.

Worrals could see all this as she fumed impotently behind the tree, though she had to admit that there was no sense in making herself a possible target for nothing. The snow eased, allowing her to see more clearly and witness a scene springing into abrupt activity. She saw a man, staggering towards the fence, clutching his arm, with five or six others in pursuit. It was obvious that they would catch him and the men waiting, who had started to move through the gap to his assistance, leapt back again. Both had drawn guns and were taking aim when a snap shot from Biggles, which whined off the top of the car roof, caused them to spin round. One fired hastily at him, now dangerously exposed, whilst the other turned to send a shot through the hole in the fence. The man trying to escape stumbled and fell. The man who had fired at Biggles jumped into the car, which turned violently, bumping on the grass verge in the process. The third man tried to join it but another shot from Biggles caused him to slip and sprawl on the road, whereupon, with vehicles suddenly approaching from the base, his companions drove off, sending Biggles diving out of the way as they snapped a shot in his direction.

With the car gone and figures now appearing at the fence, the remaining man dashed across the road. He pointed his gun at Biggles, now struggling to regain his feet but Worrals, devoid of other weapons, sent a well-directed snowball to burst on his ear and distract him. The man turned and, clearly unaware of where this new missile had come from, plunged straight towards the tree. As he passed it, Worrals flung herself on his back, clutching at his neck and causing him to fall. An elbow in the face sent her reeling but the huge figure of Copper emerged to complete the capture with one well-aimed blow.

Meantime two staff cars had sped past Biggles as he debated what to do. Gimlet joined him.

'Gad, it's cold weather for this kind of business,' he said, conversationally.

'I'm relieved to see you. We heard the explosion. Any casualties?'

'Only some bushes – and my suit in a mess.'

'How's the prisoner? I didn't expect to see him running free.'

'He'll survive. No thanks to his friends, though. That shot was meant to kill him.'

They looked over to where Copper and Trapper were escorting their dazed captive with Worrals walking behind them.

'A resourceful lady, Miss Worralson,' Gimlet observed. 'That snowball may have saved your life.'

'I'm glad we followed up our hunch,' said Biggles. 'Well, there's not much we can do about the pursuit so we might as well go inside again.'

Before he could take a step, however, the squeal of a skidding, braking car came from the direction the three vehicles had taken, culminating in the distant crunch of a collision.

'Take that man inside, Copper,' Gimlet ordered briskly and then, with one glance across the road to ensure that the recaptured escapee was well attended by airmen, he and Biggles rushed away, followed, a second later, by Worrals and Steeley, who had just joined her.

It took a few minutes to reach a bend of the road, where two wrecked cars scarred the snow on either side with the RAF. vehicles safely parked nearby, their occupants hovering around the crash. As Biggles drew closer, he noted that it was a police car that had been hit, though fortunately its two occupants seemed no more than dazed by the encounter. The Herald had careered into a tree. An ambulance and another police car arrived.

'Obvious what happened,' said Gimlet. 'Our uninvited visitors tried to take the corner too fast and skidded into the police car coming the other way. Well, it's stopped them escaping.'

An inspector emerged from the newly arrived car. Biggles went over and introduced himself and together they watched the injured men being carried to the ambulance.

'They'll need to be guarded,' Biggles said, 'not to prevent them escaping – I'm sure they're in no shape for that at present – but to stop anyone silencing them. This is a ruthless organisation that does its best to ensure that its members don't talk if they're taken prisoner.'

'I'll see to it,' the inspector promised.

'Well,' said Biggles, turning to the others, 'things are under control here so I think it's time to return to that fire – if it hasn't died from neglect.'

'Yes,' Gimlet agreed, ' I'm beginning to feel decidedly damp.'

'Those two looked hors de combat for a while. I hope we get more out of the man Worrals captured.'

'Depends how hard Copper thumped him,' said Worrals.

'Hard I hope,' said Gimlet. 'Dashed bad form to hit a woman. How are you by the way?'

'Okay, I think – though I'll have a bruise to match Frecks' now.'

'I'm grateful for your snowballing prowess, by the way,' acknowledged Biggles.

'She's good with onions, too,' chuckled Steeley. 'It argues a mis-spent youth.'

'Don't give all my secrets away,' smiled Worrals.

At a brisk pace, they returned to the base.

'I'm afraid it was my doing, calling up the local police,' admitted Raymond, when they were all settled in the room again. 'I thought it might be useful to have them in the offing if there was an enemy vehicle in the vicinity.'

'Well, they certainly stopped our visitors from getting away,' said Biggles. 'We just have to make sure they stay around for a while. Neither of them is saying anything at present. Our bomber is hopping mad at the attempt to permanently silence him but he's still saying nothing. Wilks has a couple of airmen guarding him while the camp doctor takes that slug out of his shoulder. Our other beauty just glares at us and demands the right to speak to his solicitor.'

'We could put them together and observe the results,' suggested Gimlet. 'It could be entertaining and maybe informative.'

The resurrected fire was blazing merrily, a welcome sight for those who had spent time out in the snow. Wilks was about to arrange another round of coffee when the phone rang. He answered it.

'What!' he said, surprised. He turned to the others. 'An aircraft,' he explained, 'asking permission to land. Who on earth would be up in this weather?'

Evidently mindful of Steeley's comment earlier, he spoke into the phone again.

'Tell him to identify himself,' he ordered.

There was a pause, then he looked up.

'Says his name's Marcel Brissac,' he told them, 'of the French Air Police.'

Biggles' face broke into a smile.

'Relax then, Wilks,' he advised. 'It's one of ours.'


	14. Various connections

**Chapter 13 - Various Connections**

Biggles went down with Wilks to meet the new arrival, mainly to make sure that it really was Marcel.

'I'm beginning to believe this gang is capable of anything,' he remarked as they strode towards the taxiing plane. 'That looks like Marcel's Morane, though.'

He smiled as a lithe, dapper figure with a trim moustache jumped easily to the ground and came over to them.

'Bonjour, Marcel,' Biggles said.

'Bonjour, mon ami. How go you?'

Biggles introduced Wilks.

'Come in out of the cold,' invited Wilks. 'My ground staff will look after your machine.'

'Tres bon. Your weather, she is foul as usual. In Paris we have the sun.'

'So that's where it's gone,' Wilks laughed.

They went inside and there were more welcomes and introductions when they joined the others. But for the circumstances, thought Ginger, gazing around, the room could have been a friendly club, its members relaxing in comfort round a roaring fire on a cold day. Dark wooden panelling on the walls added to the cosiness of the surroundings, as did the tea, coffee and mince pies that had been served.

'Now then,' Raymond began, a wry smile on his face, 'where were we?'

'You were saying something about a fifth key figure, who might be identified later,' Biggles prompted.

'I hope Capitaine Brissac will be able to provide that.'

'Mais oui,' replied Marcel, his face animated. 'Monsieur Henri Sevin, a man of many interests and much wealth who spends most of his time in his grand house in Corsica, on the edge of the Maquis.'

'Another peaceful spot,' muttered Biggles.

'And ideally situated to make contacts all over the Mediterranean,' added Raymond.

'_C'est ca_,' Marcel agreed, 'and to organise trouble in France, Italy, Spain – where you wish.'

'Does he know you suspect him?' asked Biggles.

'I think not. Whether his wife knows what he is up to, I am unable to say. Madame Monique Sevin is a lady formidable.'

'In what way?' asked Raymond. 'Does she have many friends or is she a solitary being, like most of our suspects seem to be?'

'_Tiens_, she makes friends all the time. Always the gossip over the coffee cups, though, by all accounts, she takes in more information than she gives out.'

'What are you thinking of?' Biggles asked his chief.

'If the opportunity arises, it might be handy to supply Madame Sevin with a new French lady-friend she can converse with. A pity your features are now well known to the enemy, Worrals, or that might have been a role for you. You and Frecks have passed muster as French women in the past. Of course there is another possibility,' he added, looking uncertainly at Biggles.

'Who do you have in mind?'

'That girl-friend of yours whom you plucked out of Bohemia not so long ago. Marie Janis.'

'Marie! But she's German.'

'Good enough to fool you into thinking she was French the first time you met – and, more importantly, the local people in her area at the time.'

'I think she's had her fill of that kind of excitement in her life,' Biggles said. 'She's enjoying some peace and quiet for once. I shouldn't think she'd want to rush into danger again.'

'She might,' volunteered von Stalhein, 'if you were involved.'

'It's something to consider, anyway,' Raymond suggested.

'Could this Monique Sevin be Cordelia?' Gimlet suggested. '"Queen of us, of ours and our fair France" in the words of the bard.'

'Maybe,' considered Biggles. 'It's a thought.'

'This enables us to fill in many of the gaps we still had in the information gleaned from da Silva's papers,' said Raymond with satisfaction. 'We can now insert real identities for code names. Pedersen liaises with Soviet elements via his fishing fleet; da Silva links with various hostile groups in the USA through Canada, especially Ontario and Quebec, where there are many communities that have their roots in the Azores; Villiers-Silver is concerned with causing problems on the home front, particularly, as we have seen today, with sabotage.'

'Plus a bit of abduction and attempted murder on the side,' chimed in Frecks.

'Yes, I wonder if he has any other safe houses dotted around we'd do well to know about,' Raymond mused.

Wilks entered and handed a note to the Air Commodore. Raymond read it quickly as the Group-Captain left.

'Four other bases have reported attempted sabotage,' he revealed. 'Two of them were successful, each causing the destruction of aircraft and some casualties, though none serious I'm relieved to say. The others were thwarted, though, apart from here, no-one else has been apprehended.'

He looked around the group seriously.

'It's being blamed on Soviet agents,' he added, 'which could lead to demands to increase our defence budget. That would be good news for those with connections to armaments production and sales. Fortunately we can dispel those suspicions.'

'I might give Eddie Ross a ring in the States in case they try the same thing over there,' said Biggles thoughtfully. He stood up. 'You carry on,' he advised. 'It might take a bit of time to get through.'

He went off to find Wilks. Raymond helped himself to a mince pie.

'What's our next step?' asked Steeley. 'Presumably we can't just walk in and arrest these fellows yet.'

'No. We still do not have enough direct evidence. The house Miss Lovell was taken to is not in Villiers-Silver's name but in that of a company, apparently in use as business premises. He would claim he knew nothing of what was going on there and that the place was being used illegally by outsiders. Besides, though he and Sidlington come under our jurisdiction and this couple in Corsica under that of Capitaine Brissac, our other two candidates do not, however friendly the relations between their countries and ours. And as we know from the experiences of our ladies here, it is by no means sure that a police investigation in San Miguel would fall into the right hands. It wouldn't get very far with Pereira in charge.'

'What do we do, then?' queried Algy. 'Just keep watching?'

'That, of course, but we may receive information from these fellows we picked up. They may change their tune about not speaking if they think they're likely to be marked men anyway. Whether they know enough to incriminate Villiers-Silver is another matter, though. A man as clever as he is would be sure to stay in the background as much as possible.'

Gimlet had gone to the window.

'No more cars on the road,' he reported. 'A regular blizzard again. Wonder how Freddie's hunting went. Be interesting to know if there were any observers there.'

He reached for the phone and rang through. The others heard only his side of the conversation, which wasn't much since most of this was listening. After some final pleasantries, he rang off.

'The snow's only just reached Sussex,' he announced, 'so the hunt went ahead. Some protesters turned up. Not wholly unexpected these days but Freddie was suspicious of two of them, who seemed to him to have simply attached themselves to the group, rather than be a natural part of it. Freddie's eye for infiltrators is still keen after all these years. It was a young couple who took his eye, chiefly because no-one else seemed to know them. Moreover they became detached from the main group later but still managed to keep a close eye on Freddie.'

'That could be the pair that picked Frecks up,' commented Copper.

Gimlet could only give a vague description, gleaned from the phone call but Frecks nodded.

'Could well be them,' she said.

'Well, it looks as if my hopes that Freddie could act as a distraction may have been fulfilled,' Gimlet concluded. 'I trust the happy couple had an enjoyable day and are now stuck in a snow-drift.'

There was some laughter and then Biggles returned.

'I spoke to Eddie,' he began, in answer to the expectant glances. 'Earlier in the day there, of course, but it seems the same thing's happening. Three attempts foiled but two successful, including a hangar blown up, causing massive damage to a number of aircraft inside. Some arrests but on each occasion a back-up team effected an escape, in one case commandeering the vehicle taking the prisoners to custody. Fake police and air force personnel simply driving them to freedom.' He smiled across at Steeley. 'At least that's one stroke we've managed to pull ourselves.'

'And presumably this is being blamed on the Soviet Union,' said Raymond.

'Yes. A number of bristling senators are demanding a tougher stance and more armaments. But Eddie also said that there have been sabotage attempts in Russia as well and they are blaming the USA and also getting hot under the collar.'

'So Pedersen's been busy,' mused Raymond. 'I hadn't thought of this kind of thing going both ways. But then, they have to buy their weapons from somewhere, too.'

'I told Eddie our suspicions and he'll pass them on to his superiors and the military. What notice they'll take of them is another matter.'

'Yes, I may have a tough job to convince our people here,' affirmed Raymond. 'I was asked a moment ago what should be our next step. Well, if we are interpreting da Silva's notes correctly, the masterminds behind this infernal organisation are meeting soon to finalise their plans. Chaos among our students, sabotage, assassinations, bank robberies – all these activities are mooted and some of them, as we have seen today, have been actively pursued. If we could only find out when and where that meeting is likely to be, we could plan some action based on that.'

'Catch them all in the same net, sort of thing, what,' said Bertie.

'Yes – if we can gather the evidence around them. We'll have them under surveillance, of course.'

'They'll soon get wise to that, if I'm any judge,' said Biggles. 'Villiers-Silver is already suspicious of Gimlet and I'm sure the others will be equally alert. They'll be likely to give us the slip, when the time comes, you may be sure of that. Somehow we'll have to find out the details in advance so that it isn't a matter of following but being already in place waiting for them to arrive. It's going to be a matter of pursuing every avenue of potential information that we can.'

Wilks returned.

'Snow's drifting,' he reported. 'Looks as if you'll be staying the night. I've a team working on the hole in the fence so that'll soon be secure again.'

'Until the next explosion,' said Biggles drily. 'Well, it doesn't look as if we'll be able to do any following today. What's for supper?'

Mindful of what had happened the last time they had all slept under the same roof, Worrals and Frecks tossed uneasily in their beds in a separate room, half wishing they were in sleeping bags in the lounge like the others and making the most of an expiring fire. They slept at last though and woke to a silent white world that defied any outdoor activity.

Nevertheless it was the sound of a helicopter that had awakened them and by the time they were up, Biggles and Algy were greeting a heavily built man, shaking snow from his overcoat at the entrance to the mess. Wary of waking the others, they went downstairs to join the little group. Biggles introduced the newcomer as Inspector Gaskin from Scotland Yard, who had come up to interview the prisoners. Wilks came in and organised coffee for them with the promise of breakfast to follow and they sat down with the appetising smell of bacon and eggs being cooked to tantalise their taste buds. 

'We've identified some of your villains,' said the inspector, sugaring his cup. 'Their explosives expert yesterday was Buster Briggs, whose usual line of country is blowing the doors off safes. I thought it might be him from the description I was given.'

'Interesting,' said Biggles, 'so they're recruiting key men from the criminal fraternity for special jobs.'

'Looks like it. You were away earlier or I could have told you that we'd also matched the prints we found on the cigarette butts you found for us and in the car they had. Two more of our old clients with records for violence.'

'Attempted murder in this case,' Biggles pointed out. 'How about the helicopter pilot?'

'Nothing on our files but we're checking with the FBI. The prints we got from the Jaguar show that the pair who tried to blow you off the road and then turned up in the Solomons are also known to us. Records as long as your arm.'

By the time the breakfasts were ready, others had joined them and Gaskin waited for them all to assemble before adding any more.

'Besides this sabotage attempt – and the others that were attempted yesterday – we suspect this gang of carrying out a number of audacious robberies recently. Two banks and bullion raid at least.'

'Financing their major activities, no doubt,' put in Gimlet, who was now sitting beside them.

'And they may well be doing the same sort of thing in other countries,' Biggles suggested. 'Their international network means they can fly in, do a job and then fly out again and before you've had a chance to work things out, they're the other side of the world.'

'Anything from the house?' queried Gimlet.

'Nothing much. It was deserted when we got there – apart from the dog. He took some getting past,' the Inspector added, ruefully.

'You must feed him,' chuckled Trapper, softly.

Breakfast over, they adjourned to the lounge, its fire now re-lit and warming the room, and Gaskin lit his pipe.

'We'll follow your lead on this, of course,' he said. 'Keep tabs on all your suspects – that sort of thing. Give us the descriptions and we'll keep them under close surveillance.'

'Not too close,' advised Raymond. 'We don't want them getting wind of us. They're bound to be on their guard now.'

'I've detailed some of my best men, sir,' Gaskin assured, mindful that he was addressing an assistant-commissioner. 'We'll take care. And whenever you want us to make a move, just say the word.'

'Just a reporting brief at present, I think,' said Raymond, 'unless you catch them in the act, of course, as we did these fellows here.'

'Right sir!' Gaskin stood up. 'I think our safe-breaking friend may be persuaded to spill the beans, if you'll excuse the expression. The fact that this lot is willing to kill each other rather than risk someone talking has got him worried. I suggested to him earlier that if he doesn't talk then sooner or later they'll come gunning for him whereas if he does we might get them before they do. He's thinking that over and so, I imagine, are the others, especially the one with the wounded shoulder, who's still furious that they meant to kill him once it was clear they couldn't get him away.'

'Good work, Gaskin,' said the Air Commodore, shaking hands, 'and good luck. That's five prisoners for us to work on now, counting Crazy Jim. Surely one of them will break.'

'I hope so, sir,' said Gaskin, and took his leave.

'And now,' said Biggles, 'we need to consider our next move. Once this snow has stopped,' he added gloomily.

The weather had improved a week later when a British trawler was ordered to heave to just off the Faroe Islands. Its skipper checked his position as the patrol boat approached. Just outside the limit, he confirmed. Perfect reckoning. He gazed at the oncoming motor launch with equanimity.

That this was just a routine visit was clear by the fact that it carried only two men. The familiar figure of Jens Joensen clambered aboard; the other returned to his ship.

'Very close to the limit,' Jens commented.

'Just the right side, though,' asserted the skipper. 'Will ye take a dram wi' me below, or some coffee perhaps?'

Jens nodded. They went down to a small cabin already occupied by two men. The captain withdrew. The men stood up to shake hands.

'We meet again,' said Jens to Cub.

'This is Captain King, my chief,' Cub explained, introducing Gimlet.

'So,' Jens smiled, 'I was right. You were an agent.'

'After bigger fish than the ones you're concerned with,' said Gimlet easily, pouring the coffee. 'We'll be interested to know if you can help us in any way. You intimated to Mr Peters that there were some strange events happening here.'

He handed the cup across to Jens and they sat down.

'My boat will return in half-an-hour,' Jens said. 'Any longer would be unusual so I'll tell you what I know quickly. Firstly, on three occasions in recent months I have come upon Faroese fishing boats that I am sure were trying to avoid me.'

'Did these boats come from the same fleet?' asked Gimlet.

'Yes.'

'Mr Pedersen's?'

'Yes.'

'And were there Russian trawlers in the area on these occasions?'

'Yes, each time.'

'And do you suspect that the vessels were making contact?'

'Not just contact. I'm almost sure that, on at least one occasion, Mr Pedersen was on board at the time but wasn't seen for some time afterwards.'

'And you think he might have transferred to this other ship and had a brief visit to the Soviet Union for that time.'

'I think this is a possibility – yes. And it may be about to happen again.'

'Why do you say that?'

'First I must tell you that Mr Pedersen is Danish, not Faroese and at least one of his crews is wholly Danish. They do not mix very much, which is unusual.'

'Maybe these are old friends of Mr Pedersen from his homeland.'

'Yes, but he has some Faroese working for him, one of whom is a close friend of mine. Recently he was taking some coffee to Mr Pedersen, who was studying a detailed map of a small island, which he pushed out of sight when my friend entered.'

'Did your friend see the name of this island?'

'No, it was hidden away. But Mr Pedersen had begun to write down a word on his pad. It was an English word, which was strange.'

'What was it?'

'Wait.'

'Wait!'

'Yes, but my friend thought that might not be the whole word. There was a date before the word – the end of January.'

'Two weeks from now,' Cub murmured.

'Again, it was only Mr Pedersen's eagerness to conceal the map that made my friend curious. It is not against the law to study a map. It may be a place he planned to visit. Especially since he has not been seen around Torshavn for the last few days. The word is he has gone to Denmark.'

'Via a Russian trawler?'

'Maybe. He did not fly out or go by the regular steamer service.'

'So he may be in the Soviet Union again – en route to this mysterious island, perhaps.'

'Yes, although there is one strange aspect about the island I should have mentioned. Whether it'll be of any use, I don't know.'

'What is that?'

'My friend caught a glimpse of the map before Mr Pedersen covered it up. He was too far away to be able to see any names but he noticed the shape. It was like a piece of seaweed, he said, very thin in the middle but wide to its north and south. A little like a squashed capital I.'

There was more coffee and more talk but Jens was not really able to add to his information before the return of his boat was announced.

'Not very much,' he apologised standing up to go, 'but a little bit strange, I thought. Oh, I do have one thing more.'

He reached into an inside pocket and brought out a photograph.

'This is Mr Pedersen,' he disclosed, handing it over.

'Thank you,' Gimlet acknowledged. 'I was hoping for a picture.'

He and Cub stared briefly at a black-bearded face, whose deep eyes beneath their dark brows, stared coldly past the camera at some distant object. A full head of hair complemented the beard.

'Did he know this was being taken?' Gimlet queried.

'No,' admitted Jens. 'I thought it might be useful to have on record. It's an enlargement. The original picture was taken from a little way off.'

'Thank you again,' said Gimlet, shaking hands. 'We're very grateful for your assistance. It might be more important than you think. Now we must hope this little meeting has gone undetected.'

'It should have. Your message came through very discreet channels.'

The skipper escorted him on deck and Gimlet watched through a porthole as the motorboat made its way back to the ship.

'We know when, now,' he said, glancing at Cub, 'but the location is something of a riddle. He's given us the clues, now we have to solve them. And with precious little time to do it.'

He turned back to watch the Faroe Islander's return and see the protection vessel begin to steam away to the south on its long and lonely voyage of patrol. He watched it till it disappeared from sight in the early darkness of a threatening afternoon, his brow furrowed in thought as he sought an answer to the puzzling fragments of detail they had been given.

When the trawler docked briefly at Lerwick, Gimlet and Cub went ashore with the other sailors. A taxi was waiting not far away and as they approached it a Scottish voice offered his services.

'Why not?' said Gimlet. 'Beastly weather for carting bags around.'

They got in. Without being asked, the taxi drove off in the direction of the airport.

'Glad to see you, Angus,' said Gimlet. 'Been there long?'

'Only just arrived. I'd have had to turn fares away otherwise and that would have been suspicious. How was the voyage?'

'A little too rough for me,' said Gimlet.

'It won't be much better in the air with this wind. Good job Biggles will be at the controls and not me.'

'Good idea to have a local accent on the quay.'

'Comes in handy sometimes,' Angus grinned, 'not that it's all that local up here. Only a Sassenach would think that all Scots sound the same.'

At the airport they transferred to the Gadfly, Angus leaving the taxi with a local official before joining them.

Biggles took off at once and headed south.

'Satisfactory trip?' he enquired as soon as they were in the air.

'Could be,' Gimlet replied, 'once we've sorted out a puzzle.'

He explained what Jens had shared with them.

'Doesn't make sense,' said Biggles. 'Why should a Dane make a note for himself in English?'

'Jens' friend did think it might only be the beginning of something,' Cub reminded them.'

'If it's any good to you, we've an atlas aboard,' informed Biggles. 'You can look for your strangely shaped island in that if you like.'

Angus handed it to Cub who began to search through it, carefully scanning the groups of islands, which usually appeared in little boxes at the side of the appropriate page. For a while this was not an easy task as the plane rocked under the onslaught of a gale. Angus had been right about the weather. Quite unperturbed, Biggles and Gimlet were discussing what could be done about the key men they had discovered.

'The only people we could arrest so far are the small fry,' Biggles was saying. 'We have no evidence against Pedersen and not a lot against Villiers-Silver, apart from his association with criminals. We can't prove that he's actually done anything. Putting his chauffeur and a few henchmen behind bars would be a temporary check to his activities but not for long.'

'And it would be difficult to touch da Silva without a convincing case for the Portuguese authorities,' added Gimlet. 'If we can locate this confounded meeting of theirs, it would help enormously.'

'Maybe this Jens has given us that. What were your impressions of him, by the way?'

'I liked him. Good man for the job and nobody's fool. Pedersen may not have realised just how alert he is.'

'As a matter of detail, we may now be able to pin down another of those Shakespearean code names. Sidlington claimed that Hamlet was dealing with the Russians. Hamlet was Prince of Denmark and Pedersen is a Dane. That seems to add up.'

An exclamation from Cub stopped him.

'Found something?' asked Gimlet, turning round.

'Maybe. Too small to be sure but there's something to the east of New Zealand that might be the right shape. Chatham Island, it's called.'

'I've a map of New Zealand,' Angus contributed, surprisingly, reaching in his bag. He brought it out. 'I've a cousin lives in Dunedin and I've a mind to visit him soon. Thought I'd see exactly where that is.'

'And here's the island in an inset. It's actually a small group of islands. Chatham is the biggest. It does look a bit like a squashed I - heavy at the base, long at the top, skinny in the middle. And . . .' Cub stopped in mid-flow.

'What's the matter?' Gimlet asked.

'What do think the main settlement is called?'

'I've no idea.'

'Waitangi. The first four letters spell Wait.'

'Found it, by gad!' exclaimed Gimlet.

'Seems a huge coincidence otherwise,' Biggles confirmed.

Angus was reaching into his bag again.

'I've a wee book about New Zealand with me too,' he said. 'I'll see if it tells us anything.'

'Glad this turbulence is easing,' commented Biggles from the pilot's seat. 'It'll be easier to concentrate. Anything interesting?' he added when Angus announced he had found a reference.

'Not a lot. Settled by Danish whalers originally, apparently.'

Biggles and Gimlet exchanged a glance.

'Maybe Angus isn't the only person with relations in that part of the world,' said Biggles. 'I should have stayed put in the Solomons. I've just flown all the way back now it looks as if I'll be flying all the way out again. Still,' he added as they ran into a snow shower, 'at least it's summer there. I won't be sorry to leave this winter behind.'


	15. Lying in wait

**Chapter 14 – Lying In Wait**

Biggles stepped out of the twin-engine police Merlin in the middle of New Zealand's South Island and shivered briefly in a biting wind. Distant peaks filled the horizon to the west with a wavy white. Though he had escaped from snow on the ground in England, it remained palpably in sight even in the antipodes.

'I thought you said it was going to be warm,' Ginger complained behind him. 'It's supposed to be summer.'

'It was, yesterday,' returned Biggles, a wry smile on his face. 'So this is what they mean by a Southerly.'

The airport was small but its terminal offered a cafeteria and soon they were fortifying themselves with hot drinks.

'Nice little airport,' observed Ginger, supplementing his tea with fruitcake, 'but who's this Richard Pearse that old chap thought we should be aware of?'

'Early aviator,' Biggles informed. 'Made one of the first ever flights in these parts about the same time as the Wright Brothers were getting airborne, possibly earlier, in fact. Flew over a couple of fields and landed ignominiously in a hedge by all accounts. That's probably why he's not better known. Didn't have full control. Still, if he got the machine up, that was a significant achievement in itself.'

'A bit far off the beaten track in those days, old boy,' contributed Bertie, fixing his monocle. 'Take a while for the news to trickle out and by that time the Wright Brothers' effort would have eclipsed it.'

'So, now we're here we wait,' said Ginger, pouring a second cup.

'That's about it,' Biggles agreed. 'Not for long, I hope.'

Algy had gone on to the Chatham Islands, it being felt that he had had the least direct contact with their adversaries and Biggles' presence there might be too noteworthy in such a small place. In the event the small population was already considerably augmented by other strangers, eager to fill their boats with crayfish and make a speedy fortune. His was not the only amphibian to settle on the large lagoon, then, and he was pleased that the Gadfly was not too conspicuous, though, as cover, a government survey team had accompanied him. They had accommodation provided but Algy preferred to sleep on board.

He had also brought a bicycle, suspecting that the island would boast no regular taxi services, and by this means made his way about the island. Waitangi itself was six or seven miles away but, with no schedule to meet, the trip was not onerous, though the settlement itself offered little more than a general store, a hotel and a post office. The monthly boat from New Zealand steamed into the tiny port as he watched and bagfuls of bulky mail that could not be accommodated by the weekly plane were brought ashore. There was a smart new fishing boat as deck cargo. Algy commented on it as one of the crew jumped ashore and came by him.

'Trim looking craft,' he remarked.

'Aye,' the sailor agreed, his accent hinting at a distant Scottish heritage. 'And a proud owner gazing down.'

Algy noted an anxious figure on the bridge. The man beside him chuckled.

'He's barely moved from that spot the whole voyage,' he revealed. 'We've had a calm enough passage but you'd have thought it was liable to be washed overboard at any second the way he's watched over it.'

'You take passengers then,' said Algy.

'Aye, we do. You must be a stranger if you need to ask.'

'I am.'

'No women, mind. Just the one cabin. And not so full these days when there's money aplenty with the crays.'

'It can be a heavy trip at times, I assume.'

'Aye it can that. And who's going to spend two days on a boat when the plane's only a couple of hours?'

'Not me,' agreed Algy. 'You'll be free of human cargo going back then.'

'Just one. A Dane by all accounts,' was the unexpected answer. 'I hope he speaks the language.'

He went on by. Algy walked away from the wharf and along the winding swathes of beach, ascending after a while to sit among the sand dunes and enjoy the bar of chocolate he had bought earlier. Looking back he could still discern the ship and was interested to note the new fishing boat being lowered and launched. Evidently its owner, already restless at the two day delay to the voyage's beginning, had decided not to wait two days more for his purchase to be delivered at his front door but was preparing to sail it round himself.

The village hall boasted a film that evening, presumably arrived off the boat. Algy joined a large and noisy audience, which enjoyed the western they were offered, even though it was at least ten years old. No grand premieres here, he thought with a smile. He helped the caretaker and his son clear up afterwards, chatting easily to them about the number of visitors there were at the moment, himself included. The bike ride back afterwards in the dark was not an unpleasant prospect on a mild night but the mildness had rain attached and he was relieved when a small truck overtook him and stopped.

'A bit wet for a push-bike,' a voice called out to him. 'How far do you have to go.'

'The flying-boat berth,' Algy told him.

'Put your bike on the back and jump in,' the driver invited. 'I'll be going past there.'

'Thanks.'

The rain became heavy as they drove away.

'Every day a rainfall,' said his rescuer, tall and thickset and wearing a warm black jersey to complement a generous beard.

'So I've noticed.'

'Are you a pilot then?'

'Yes. I'm with the survey team. Do you live here?'

The man nodded.

'I've a cottage just beyond the airfield.' He smiled. 'We call it an international airport,' he added. 'Two planes a week these days. It used to be just the flying boat and the ship.'

'One man and his boat this time.'

The driver chuckled.

'That'll be Harry Peters. A neighbour of mine.'

'Good English name,' Algy observed, recalling Cub's experience.

'Some Danish there too, I think. He'll have been anxious to get home with the shipdelayed and a relative arrived off the plane.'

'From Denmark?'

'Maybe. My wife has a way of nosing out things. Nothing's secret on a small island like this.'

He said no more and Algy was hesitant to probe, fearing that any further interest on his part might be passed on and alert Pedersen, if it was him, that the Air Police were on his trail. As it was, giving a lift to a strange man on a bicycle headed for a plane could well be reported to this curious wife and be passed on to the wrong quarters. He was relieved when the time came for him to be dropped off and he could thank and farewell his new acquaintance.

Back on the aircraft he made himself some supper and settled down to consider what he had learnt. If the relative was Pedersen and he was the man booked to go back, then it looked as if this was not the place for the meeting and the Dane was _en route_ to somewhere else. In which case the others would not be coming here at all. He gazed at the photographs he had been given once more and sipped his coffee while he ensured that he would recognise at a glance any of the men whose features appeared before him.

After a while he arose, feeling he should do more before he merited rest. The rising moon gave some light and he debated whether to take the motorised dinghy around the north part of the island or use the bicycle again. The latter had the virtue of noiselessness and he was soon back on the road, finding the moonlight sufficient for progress without needing to reveal his presence by using his lamp. The raised trucks that went to and from the airport used a causeway across the lagoon that cut the journey in half but Algy was committed to the long way round. He was not even sure where it was he wanted to go; it was just an instinctive feeling that something was due to happen that night that involved Pedersen.

It took an hour or more to reach the northern settlement. What was he looking for? He didn't know. Perched above the shore in a chilling night, he stared around and at the sea for some time. After a while he thought he could see a boat coming towards the land but it had no lights so at first he couldn't be sure. Returning to the road, he cycled off in the direction the craft was heading. Soon he came to a track leading down to the shore and turned down it.

It was wide enough for a vehicle and he had no trouble making his way down. There was a building at its foot and, leaving his bicycle behind a stubbornly high clump of grass, he edged forward cautiously.

He could hear the boat's motor now and was aware of a slender light ahead, obviously guiding the vessel in. Concentrating on its approach and noting that there was a smaller boat behind it, he missed his footing and skidded on his back for some yards. Simultaneously he heard the noise of a vehicle further up the track and rolled himself over to the side and into a dip in the dune. This was in fact steeper than he had anticipated and his momentum took him right down the slope, bringing him up with a thump against the rear of the building. A truck came past, operating on sidelights only. Lighting was very low key here, Algy mused; unnecessary if the fishing boat had merely been fishing. He lay still for a second, concerned that his sudden descent might have been heard but the noise of the vehicle had obviously covered that.

It was the new boat, he noted with satisfaction, watching it berth. A group of men followed from the smaller vessel and were soon unloading crates and packing cases that, from their efforts, were both awkward and heavy. These they were bringing into the building.

Trying to manoeuvre himself into a better position Algy felt his legs slip again and felt himself sliding under the building. In fact a recent slip had had the effect of loosening the planks at the foot of the shed and Algy found that, by wriggling on his back, he could just squeeze himself through the gap this had created and into what was evidently a boathouse.

He found himself behind a pile of old sacks and raised his head cautiously. There was a light on in the shed but it was not a strong one and his corner was all in shadow.

Looking more carefully he noted that the crates were being loaded on to what must be Peters' old fishing-boat, now settled on a trailer, ready for its last voyage as cargo to New Zealand. It looked as if the cargo would now itself be carrying cargo, doubtless to be kept out of sight. Algy could hear the odd snatch of conversation and was able to recognise some of it as being in Russian. What did those crates contain? And why were the containers so many shapes and sizes, some being almost as long as the fishing boat, which only just accommodated them. It had to be something heavy from the number of men it took to transfer them; ten at least, who would presumably be returning to their mother ship by way of the launch when this was finished. He had spotted a whaler from the air on his outward flight, a Russian one his companions had thought, which would be a likely candidate.

Now a new language was being spoken, probably Danish, since it sounded Scandinavian to Algy's alert ears. He recognised Pedersen, standing by one of the crates and complaining. It had been damaged in some way so that its lid would not properly close. Still arguing the men left to consult with the truck driver outside.

The crate was a mere ten yards away from where Algy crouched and the opportunity to investigate was too good to miss. Instantly he went over and lifted the battered lid. What he saw inside astounded him.

It was an aircraft engine – a jet.

So stunned was he that he failed to notice that others were entering until it was too late. For a long second he felt sure his temerity had led to him being captured and inwardly cursed his carelessness, but the sailors were busy with their task of lifting their loads into the boat by means of a makeshift pulley. Though they clearly saw him, they paid him no special attention, obviously assuming that he was part of Pedersen's shore party. Algy nodded approval at them and strode around the other side of the boat, ostensibly to regard operations from this new position but actually anxious to have the bulk of the vessel between him and anyone else who might enter.

He was only just in time for Pedersen's voice sounded again. Algy faded into the corner and sank down behind a huge chest. If the sailors noted his absence they made no comment but he realised that there was no reason why they should, their duty being simply to obey orders. The offending crate having been properly sealed and loaded, a tarpaulin was draped and secured over the deck section of the boat, hiding its new contents. The truck was backed in, hooked up and driven slowly off. The light was extinguished and the door closed.

Algy flicked on his torch and returned to the opening, pushing his way back through the sand and outside once more. He waited for the truck with its heavy load to struggle up the slope to the road and for the Land Rover that followed it. The noises died away and the night was silent again, apart from the still receding purr of the departing launch. Relieved to find his bicycle where he had left it, Algy pedalled away, thinking hard. Clearly Pedersen was transporting the parts of a jet aircraft, almost certainly a fighter, since it could be nothing larger.

The first signs of an early dawn were streaking the sky as he wearily stepped aboard the Gadfly again. Though there was much to ponder on, he was soon asleep.

Ginger was brewing tea in the motel they had booked when Biggles returned from the airport with Algy's news.

'Still on the move, then,' he commented, preparing the cups. 'Any sign of the others?'

'Marcel confirms that the Sevins have arrived in New Caledonia, and Villiers-Silver was last reported in Vancouver.'

'What about da Silva?'

'All we know there is that he has left his Azores haunts. Timor is the closest Portuguese territory he could make for.'

'And with jolly old Prospero ensconced in the Solomons,' contributed Bertie, looking up from his browse of the local paper in an arm chair, 'they could be all around New Zealand, waiting to close in.'

'What do we do?' enquired Ginger, handing Biggles a cup.

'Stay put. At least we can keep an eye on Pedersen now. He should lead us to the others. And since his ship is headed for Lyttelton, we may find he's coming this way. But these aircraft parts are a puzzle.'

Smyth arrived bearing shopping and news.

'They're getting closer,' he announced. 'Sidlington's in Sydney.'

'How do you know that?' asked Biggles.

'Australian police rang through to the police here. Immigration tipped them off. He's booked to fly into Wellington tomorrow.'

'Now, that is news,' Biggles exclaimed, punching his palm. 'If only we can keep tabs on them all once they arrive.'

In the event the shadowing operation was accomplished more easily than had been envisaged, possibly because it was clear that da Silva was still not aware that his precious plans and codes had been microfilmed and Pedersen did not realise that his identity as Jens' informant was known. The Sevins had flown into Auckland by way of Fiji, presumably to throw any French observers off the track. From there they headed south by rail on the ill-named overnight express to Wellington, which gave them twelve hours of fitful sleep as it wound its way around volcanoes in the night. Copper, also on the train, stayed awake to ensure they didn't depart on the way; a decision which bore fruit, since, bleary-eyed, he was alert to the couple alighting some thirty miles or so short of the capital. A car was awaiting them and, though Copper was able to hire a hopeful taxi, he lost them on their way towards the sea. The settlement was strung out beside a long beach but an airfield prevented it progressing deep inland. Disgruntled he returned to the station and rang through to report to Biggles.

Biggles took the call shortly before heading off to the airport, leaving Ginger at the motel to answer the phone. There was no particular plan in this other than being available to be airborne in a hurry if required, a possibility rather than any expectation. Consequently the morning was a leisurely affair and, with Bertie, he was enjoying a mid-morning snack when a light aircraft landed close to the terminal and its pilot jumped out. Suddenly Bertie stiffened.

'I say, old boy,' he said. 'That pilot reminds me of someone. In fact he's the bounder who flew the plane that your would-be assassins escaped in.'

'Best keep your head down,' advised Biggles. 'He's coming in.'

The man entered but made for the other side of the terminal while Bertie steadfastly kept his back to him. After talking to an official for a moment the man returned to his plane and began to taxi away.

'Refuelling probably,' Biggles assessed.

Smyth, who had been making a final check of the Merlin, joined them.

'Aircraft's ready whenever you need her,' he reported.

'Good,' said Biggles. 'We may be taking off very soon. That lone aviator who's just been in may be worth following.'

'He isn't alone,' Smyth contributed. 'I spotted a couple of passengers aboard - a man and a woman. Funny they didn't come in here for a break while he's topping up.'

'Yes, that is strange,' Biggles considered. 'By thunder,' he added quickly. 'I wonder if it could be the Sevins. Copper said there was an airfield near to where he lost them. The timing's right for a flight from there, too. That would explain why they haven't left the plane: they don't want to be seen. Sharp work Smyth.'

He stood up.

'It might be an idea to see just where that aircraft goes,' he decided. 'You come with me, Bertie. We may need to use the camera.'

They took off immediately, heading north initially but swinging east and gaining height so that, by the time the other plane was roaring down the runway, Biggles had taken up the classical air combat position, with the sun behind him. The other pilot would have to squint if he was to see him, assuming he was that alert, which Biggles doubted. There was certainly no evidence of his presence being suspected as the other plane flew west towards the Southern Alps, though never at an altitude that suggested it would fly over them.

Sure enough, less than half-an-hour later, Biggles noted the aircraft preparing to land on a makeshift runway in a field behind a collection of buildings just before a tiny town. Bertie was busy with the camera and then, having fixed the spot and located it on a map, they flew back.

'It's on a kind of plateau before you get to the mountains,' Biggles told the others, once they were all back in their motel, poring over newly developed and blown-up photographs. 'That's a fairly mainish road the place is near. We ought to be able to drive past without being noticed so I've given Steeley the gen and he's on his way there now.'

'What are these buildings here, close up to where the mountains begin?' queried Ginger. 'Barns presumably but they're pretty extensive ones.'

'There's some sort of road leading to them, too,' Biggles noted, peering through his magnifying glass. 'Clear vehicle tracks at any rate – in fact there's one in the picture. A lorry of some sort I think – too large for a Land Rover.'

'So what's this place supposed to be, old boy?' put in Bertie. 'Farm of some kind?'

'There's some livestock grazing, certainly, especially in the fields nearest to the road, but nothing evident closer to the barns. Be good to know what's in those.'

Steeley rang through some hours later.

'Apparently it's a motel,' Biggles informed the others after he had hung up. 'That's what the sign up at the road says. No vacancies, Steeley reported. The farm's obviously behind it. There's a village nearby; three or four hundred people, he thought. A few shops though and a tea-rooms. A coach pulled up for a refreshment stop while he was there. There's also a hotel you can stay at, though not many people do, apparently. Makes it all the more strange that the motel's booked out.'

'Unless it's all cleared for the arrival of our merry men,' said Bertie.

'Precisely. Now I wonder how we're going to get closer.'

'Are you going to send Marie in?' asked Ginger.

'I don't like it,' Biggles frowned, 'but it might be the only way.'

Next day he went on a visit to the local art gallery, walking from the motel on a long mazy route, alert to anyone shadowing him. Long experience had honed his instincts to note any suspicious signs but, when he was satisfied that this was not the case, he went in. The building was an old converted house, left to the city by an art-inclined benefactor, and he made his way up a staircase to one of the smaller rooms. Here a slender figure, her greying hair neatly framing her face, stood absorbed in a modern abstract. With no-one else around, Biggles walked straight up to her.

'A nice picture, _Fraulein_,' he said.

She turned and embraced him.

'My Beegles!' she said. 'Do I have my marching orders?'

'Only if you promise to be very careful. I've been against using you from the start for fear of something happening to you. I couldn't bear that after all those long years apart.'

She laughed.

'Be careful, he says. My whole background is one of spying, remember. Now, where is it I have to go?'

He told her.

'Aim to arrive just before midday,' he advised. 'The bus from Christchurch should be there about then and you can mingle with all the passengers having hasty refreshments in the tea-rooms.'

She nodded and kissed him.

'But you must be careful, too,' she whispered. 'You have been their target before. They know you: they don't know me. I'm just a tourist from Europe, finding some peace and tranquility in my old age traveling around this lovely country. Is it a pleasant spot?'

'Very pleasant, apparently.'

'Then there is every excuse for me to stay there a few days.'

Businesslike, she patted his cheek, kissed him once more and descended the stairs, leaving Biggles to spend a respectable period with the paintings.

'What do we do about this strange cargo Pedersen's bringing with him?' Ginger asked when Biggles returned. 'We could have the ship searched at Lyttelton.'

'I was wondering about that on the way back,' Biggles admitted, drawing on a cigarette. 'That might secure one of the hierarchy but it would alert the others. And what could we prove about his intentions? He might claim he's bringing it in for an air display or a museum or a private collection or something. No certainty of a conviction. And we'd have shown our hand for nothing. But what the deuce can he want it for?'

'A decko inside that long barn might be instructive,' suggested Bertie.

'Agreed – but how do we do that? You need search warrants here as well as at home and you may be sure they'll have it well guarded if there is anything going on.'

'Let's hope Marie can uncover something,' said Ginger.

'We'll need to keep a close eye on this motel-cum-farm-cum-airfield,' decided Biggles. 'I'm meeting an inspector this afternoon to discuss the situation. Maybe the local police can come up with some ideas.'

There were many eyes at Lyttelton Harbour to note the arrival of the ship from the Chatham Islands. Algy had observed its departure from Waitangi, noting the old fishing-boat on its deck and aware of what it carried out of sight beneath the taut tarpaulin. A day later he flew back, leaving the survey team behind for a further week and arranging with a regular government pilot to fetch them later.

There was a car waiting to receive Pedersen and a lorry for his excess baggage, which, once loaded, was secreted beneath a high hood so that its nature was not evident. Then, the car in attendance, the lorry drove off. Steeley, watching it with unobtrusive interest, wandered back into the town and phoned Biggles.

'Heading south, as we thought,' Biggles told the others a little later on as further calls came through to the motel from police observers. 'And I think we know where to.'

'Maybe that big barn's where they put the bally thing together,' voiced Bertie.

'You could be right,' Biggles said. 'Let's have a look at those photographs again. How far would you say those barns are from the road and the village?'

'Quite a distance,' Ginger answered. 'Four or five miles, perhaps.'

'Far enough away for any undue noise to pass unheard,' said Biggles, thoughtfully. 'I wonder if this is the only aircraft they've smuggled in. We know there have been a number of big lorries making their way along that track recently.'

'Strange preparations for a meeting, old boy,' breathed Bertie.

'More than a meeting,' asserted Biggles. 'A jet fighter, if it is one, has only one function – to shoot down another plane. The Ides of March,' he muttered, almost to himself. 'A date associated with assassination. We've identified our conspirators: Cassius, Brutus and the rest. There must be a Caesar in the offing – but where, and who?'


	16. Close encounters

**Chapter l5 - Close Encounters**

The tiny plane, that had spent its day aerial top-dressing a widespread array of fields, came in to land on a lonely airstrip. Ginger jumped out to meet the inquiring gaze of his chief.

'Well!' said Biggles, succinctly.

'Boring,' Ginger complained. 'Back and forth, up and down, never arriving anywhere. Good views though,' he added significantly.

'You spotted the car I take it.'

'Yes – and the place it turned off the road. It was the motel all right.'

A sheeptruck rumbled up and came to a halt. Copper got out, chuckling.

'Never followed anyone from the front before,' he said. 'Your Mr Sidlington couldn't get past me at all till he turned off at the motel.'

Biggles nodded.

'That confirms what we thought. They've all gathered at the same place. No wonder the "No Vacancies" sign is up. At least, with sheeptrucks and top-dressing planes so common over here, we can maintain some surveillance without them being suspicious. What we need now is detail.'

A day or so later Biggles put in a stint as a ski-plane pilot at Mount Cook. His one passenger was Marie, who, like any normal tourist, had driven through for the day in her hired Morris Minor to see New Zealand's highest mountain and enjoy the thrill of landing on a glacier.

'A pity we're not doing this for fun,' Biggles observed shortly after they had taken off in the specially equipped Cesna and were admiring the majestic panorama of rugged snow-laden peaks. 'Maybe we can come here again when it's all over.'

'That would be nice, my Beegles,' she said. 'Meantime I have news. I have met Monique Sevin.'

'That was quick,' he breathed, admiringly.

'It was not so difficult. She and her husband are also playing at being tourists. They are a beautiful French couple on holiday, still in love and interested in the village they are staying near.'

Biggles frowned.

'That's strange,' he murmured. 'I thought they'd be keeping out of the way. They weren't keen to be seen earlier.'

'Ah, don't you see? By behaving in this nature they are dissolving the mystery. A full motel with all its guests operating in the utmost secrecy would attract gossip – the last thing they desire. Also they are so open and friendly that anyone who has noticed anything unusual going on would ask them about it.'

'Nobody has, presumably.'

'No. So they are secure.'

'Where did you meet them?'

'In the tea-rooms. I saw them enter and went over myself for an ice-cream on a hot day. The ice-cream here is _magnifique_, _n'est-ce pas_?'

Biggles agreed.

'They think so too,' she continued. 'My accent caught their attention and soon we were three Europeans together. She is full of questions, though, that Monique. I hope my cover holds.'

'So do I,' said Biggles fervently.

'We had a nice talk woman to woman,' Marie smiled.

'Does she know you've come here today?'

'But yes. I invited her too. Let us see _la grande montagne_ together, I suggested. She declined.'

'You were taking a chance.'

'Not really. I must be open with her or she will suspect me. And you must take the photograph of me beside the plane on the glacier so I can show it to her if she asks. You know where it is,' she added anxiously.

Biggles nodded.

'I got the gen from one of the regular pilots,' he explained.

'I told her I had been hoping to stay at the motel but it was full,' Marie continued. 'She said they had been lucky to get in and that the other guests were quiet and she didn't see much of them.'

'She didn't mention the interesting lorries that trundle into the farmland beyond, I'll wager.'

'Nothing.'

They landed on the glacier and had a brief picnic lunch, though it was too cold to enjoy outside the aircraft. Biggles took the picture then, noticing the weather about to change, took off hurriedly and headed back.

'Take care,' he warned when they had landed again. 'She's sure to be on the lookout for strangers. And, so far, you're the only one.'

'I will.' She smiled. 'I am so pleased to be spying for my Beegles.'

They parted formally and she returned to her car.

It was Steeley's idea to make an additional delivery as a way of finding out for sure what was happening at the back of the huge property. Not without misgivings, Biggles allowed the scheme to go ahead, making some back-up plans of his own in the process.

'It's too risky,' he said at first. 'If they rumble you, you'll never get out alive – and your cover story's wafer thin.'

'I'm not sure they'd chance that,' Steeley responded. 'If I don't get out again, you raid the place. Perfect pretext. I went in: I didn't come out. They'll be aware of that. They may be ruthless but the hierarchy isn't stupid. And they're on the spot, calling the shots at present.'

Steeley drove his van, full of spare parts for aircraft provided by the RNZAF base at Wigram, up the track beside the motel that led to the farm. The gate was closed but a watchful, thickset man emerged after Steeley had honked his horn.

'Yes?' said the man, enquiringly.

'Spare parts for aircraft,' Steeley explained. 'Is this the right place?'

'I haven't seen you here before,' said the other, conversationally rather than suspiciously. 'Thought we'd had all our deliveries.'

'This is back-up stuff,' said Steeley. 'No-one else available to bring it.'

The man seemed satisfied and opened the gate.

'Just follow the road,' he called as Steeley drove through.

The road skirted around the farmhouse and through several fields, causing much opening and closing of gates and avoiding of livestock on the way. In the distance a top-dressing plane was busy and he guessed that Ginger was on the job.

It took almost twenty minutes to reach the buildings that had attracted such interest. They were set hard against a gorse covered hill but his first discovery was that the path that ran for a distance outside them, though straw covered, was actually concrete and extended far enough to make a runway of some length – long enough for a jet. There were no cattle or sheep this far back either.

A huge sandy-haired man in a black vest and shorts, perspiring freely, approached him.

'Not another one!' he complained. 'We've only got till tomorrow night. They're supposed to be flying Wednesday morning. Can't put an aircraft together in half-an-hour, you know.'

'Just spares,' Steeley re-assured, jumping out and moving to the back of the van. Would it have been an idea to have a posse of police inside to jump out at this juncture, he thought fleetingly. Probably not. They would be sure to have some cover story in place – an airshow or the like; evil intent could still not be proved.

The burly man lifted some of the parts out and then glared at Steeley.

'They're all busy inside,' he snarled. 'Are you just going to stand there and watch me?'

Steeley had been going to offer to lend a hand, without wishing to appear too eager; the exasperated nature of this invitation was exactly what he wanted. He grabbed one end of a long and awkward package and struggled into the building.

A passing glance was all he dared to give before returning for another load but that was enough. The long barn was a miniature aircraft factory, almost a production line. Algy had been right about the planes being fighters; there were four Migs in various stages of construction. One had been completed and stood menacingly near the doorway, ready for action. Two men were fitting its guns and ammunition. Fueling facilities were all in place; the plane would soon be able to take off at a moment's notice.

'Thought there'd be more,' he said as they returned for a second load.

The other man laughed.

'Don't want too many,' he said. 'It might succeed.'

'I did some flying in the war,' Steeley volunteered. 'Nothing like these, though.'

'Don't need pilots. Just fitters.'

'Pity the Tiger Moth that runs into one of these.'

'We wouldn't waste it on that kind of sprat,' the man sneered contemptuously, wiping more sweat from his eyes.

Most of the men inside were too involved in their work to pay him any attention but on his third trip Steeley noticed a middle-aged man, fussy and authoritative. Recalling his mug shots, he recognised da Silva.

'I'll be getting back then,' Steeley said, once the van was empty. 'Sooner you than me in this heat.'

But before he could climb into the cab, he heard a new voice behind him.

'One moment.'

It was da Silva.

'I am returning to the farmhouse,' he said. 'You will give me a lift.'

'Jump in,' invited Steeley, having no other choice.

So far things had gone as well he could have wished. He had confirmed Biggles' suspicions about the aircraft and even had a date for their deployment. But this new development was ominous, for he couldn't hope to deceive da Silva as easily as he had the hard-pressed worker.

The brief journey passed in silence to Steeley's relief, for he was fearful of probing questions that would be difficult to answer.

They stopped outside the farmhouse. For a moment Steeley thought he was clear as da Silva prepared to climb down but the Portuguese man's next words disabused him.

'Where are you returning to now?'

'Christchurch,' said Steeley, truthfully, since Wigram was on the outskirts of that city.

'Wait there,' da Silva ordered stiffly. 'You will take me with you.'

He entered the building. Steeley glanced towards the gate and noted two men standing there, both no doubt armed. He wondered whether to use the radio but decided that the danger of that being picked up was too great. Besides, they might be waiting for him to make a false move. Better to bluff it out as long as was possible.

A young woman came out of the house and up to the van. She was dark-haired and attractive and smiled at him.

'Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?' she said. 'There'll be time.'

'I'm fine thanks,' said Steeley, warily.

'Well, a cool drink, perhaps. You need something on such a hot day.'

In normal circumstances this would have been a welcome invitation and Steeley felt it would seem unusual for him to refuse. He thanked the woman and went in.

Inside he found an ordinary kitchen, large enough for a table, at which he sat. The apple juice he was offered was refreshing and, as far as he could taste, untampered with. There were some biscuits as well, which, in other circumstances, would have made a pleasant snack. The presence of the young dark-haired woman was pleasing too but here, Steeley realised, he really would have to be on his guard.

She was asking questions, apparently casual but all likely to trip him up if he was negligent. Did he enjoy driving on these hot days? How long had he been working for them? Where was his home?

When the questions became specific, Steeley prevaricated.

'I was warned not to talk about this job,' he remarked sternly.

She smiled, a winning, pleasant smile; one that would have melted Steeley's heart in his youth. Now it made him more alert.

'Tell Mr Barnadine he's done a good job when you get back,' she said artlessly.

Steeley, with a split second decision to make, gambled.

'Barnardine?' he queried, as if puzzled. 'Is that his name?' He shrugged. 'Doesn't ring a bell but my memory's shocking these days. We don't use names a lot anyway.'

'Maybe I'm thinking of someone else,' she said.

She refilled his glass.

'He won't be long,' she said, watching him carefully. 'He's just making a toll call to Christchurch.'

'No hurry,' said Steeley, his apparent indifference hiding, he hoped, his inner panic. If this phone call was to check up on him, the situation was becoming serious.

Some minutes later da Silva returned. Steeley stood up.

'I am sorry to have kept you waiting,' da Silva said, formally. 'I find I will not need to accompany you to Christchurch after all. My telephone call has achieved all that I desired.'

'Well, thanks for the drinks,' Steeley said, smiling at the woman. She nodded and he left, inwardly bemused that he was being allowed to depart. But the gate was open for him and he drove out.

Only when he was back on the road did he permit himself a brief sigh. Evidently he had gambled successfully and Barnardine had been a name tossed in at random to trap him. Obviously the man didn't exist and he had successfully called the bluff instead of falling for the ploy, as most people in his position would have done. Long experience had aided him.

One hour later, confident that he was not being followed, he drew up in a rest area. Another car was parked nearby and Biggles was seated at one of the picnic tables. Steeley joined him and reported.

'Great work,' complimented Biggles. 'You took a heck of a chance but it seems to have come off.'

'I thought I was done for when I heard that da Silva was phoning Christchurch,' admitted Steeley. 'I was sure he'd be checking up on me.'

'He was,' Biggles said, unexpectedly, 'but we anticipated that move. The New Zealand equivalent of MI5 is working with us now and they enabled us to install Frecks as a temporary operator. She put on a Kiwi accent and connected him with me at the airfield.'

'Did he ask for Mr Barnadine?' asked Steeley.

'No – that wasn't the name. That's another character in Shakespeare – _Measure for Measure _I think. Anyway I said the person he wanted was out so he asked me about the spare parts. I said we'd sent some bits and pieces this morning and that they should have arrived by now. You were the only one available and hadn't made the trip before. He seemed satisfied with that and rang off. Hallo, Ginger's waving. Someone coming. Ah, he's signalling that it's okay.'

Moments later Algy arrived with Frecks. He parked the car and they joined the others. Steeley told his story again and Frecks nodded.

'That woman you met could be the one who helped to kidnap me,' she recalled. 'Was her precious boyfriend with her?'

'I didn't see him.'

'A plausible couple,' Frecks informed him. 'They took me in completely.'

'She did her best with me,' murmured Steeley. 'At least she serves good apple juice.'

Back at the air force base in Christchurch, Biggles called a conference. Representatives of the RNZAF, the police and the New Zealand security services were in attendance.

After detailing their discoveries, Biggles summed up.

'All this points to a significant target passing near these shores the day after tomorrow,' he said. 'Reference to the Ides of March suggests a figure of the highest magnitude – a head of state perhaps.'

The representative of the security services shuffled uncomfortably.

'There are high level meetings scheduled for Canberra this week,' he admitted, 'to discuss further deployment in South-East Asia. The Americans refuse to confirm or deny that these will involve the President of the United States.'

Biggles flung up his hands in exasperation.

'Suffering Icarus!' he exploded. 'The preparations we have seen show that our enemy has a timetable, which must be based on hard information. They don't need anyone to confirm or deny – they know! If we're kept in the dark, that gives them a clear run – unless we can move in tomorrow morning.'

The police representative shook his head.

'A dawn raid on the scale you envisage would have to be Wednesday,' he said. 'At this late stage it would be very difficult to organise everything in time to ensure that it went off properly. And, from what you say, it would need to go off perfectly.'

Biggles nodded.

'Synchronising the arrival by road at the motel with the landing by the improvised hangers is crucial,' he confirmed. 'It would only need one little match among all that aviation spirit and our main evidence would be engulfed in one gigantic bonfire that would take a week to put out.'

There was a knock at the door and Smyth entered with a telegram, which he handed to Biggles. Biggles decoded it carefully and then looked around at the expectant faces.

'This is from my chief in London, Air Commodore Raymond,' he explained. 'It says that the President of the United States is currently in American Samoa and that he or some other high ranking American official will be leaving for Australia about midday Tuesday local time. With the date line to consider that makes it ten o'clock or so Wednesday morning here.' He looked up. 'Allowing two hours flying time from here to where the American planes could be intercepted, the Migs wouldn't be taking off until eight or nine o'clock at the earliest. A dawn raid should just be in time.'

When the New Zealand officials had departed, a steward arrived with coffee. Biggles waited for him to withdraw and then elaborated on his plans.

'As soon as visibility permits, Steeley will land the Merlin by the buildings housing the Migs, taking Gimlet and his team to secure that side of things. If they still think you're part of the gang, Steeley, they may hesitate before doing anything, which will give Gimlet a few vital seconds to act. A police helicopter will follow you in, whilst the ground force will be up at the motel. Some elements of that will drive out to reinforce you if necessary.'

'That sounds straightforward enough,' Gimlet confirmed. 'If Steeley lands a little way before the buildings and simply taxies in at a slow pace, we may be able to slip out along the way on the side away from them and come up unobserved. Steeley arriving alone wouldn't cause a panic.'

'Fine,' acknowledged Biggles. 'The rest of us will be involved in a contingency plan. Just in case they have any arrangements we don't know about yet, Angus and Tug will be at Mount Cook in the Gadfly, ready to radio us if any of the planes gets away. In case that happens, four of us will be standing by here with Hunters, ready to intercept as soon as we get the message. Raymond's sent von Zoyton out to reinforce us. He's due to arrive in Auckland tomorrow so I'll tell him to stay put and organise a fighter for him there so, if it does come to a battle, he can join in. There'll also be a flying-boat or two on alert in case any of us goes in the drink. None of this should be necessary but it's best to make sure.'

'I've had a message from Marie, too,' he added. 'She's going on a shopping expedition tomorrow - with Monique Sevin.' He smiled faintly. 'Perhaps our lovely Corsican wants to ensure Marie is away from the area for the day or just check on whoever she contacts. Each is trying to spy on the other. It's all a matter of whether Marie can be as successful at deceiving a woman as she was with a young romantic airman. I'd like her to pull out now, since I think we have all the information we need, but that might arouse Madame Sevin's suspicions and compromise the raid.'

'While we're on the subject of beautiful maidens,' said Worrals, with a caustic smile, 'what roles do Frecks and I play in all this excitement?'

'There shouldn't be any excitement if this all goes to plan,' Biggles pointed out. 'You've already played crucial parts today as toll operators, saving Steeley's bacon and making sure the vital information he had was delivered. We'll keep you in reserve, I think. There's always something unexpected that turns up.'

'There's one thing that puzzles me,' said Algy. 'Only four Migs, Steeley said. There'll be double that number of fighters in the escort. They can't possibly hope to succeed.'

'Remember what Steeley was told,' countered Biggles. 'If we've read this aright, it isn't a real attempt to shoot down the President or whoever else is representing the USA at these talks; just the appearance of an attempt. That alone will heighten international tension considerably and our little syndicate, with its huge involvement in the armaments trade, will become infinitely more rich and more powerful. If they succeed, the effects could be catastrophic.'

He paused for a moment.

'No wonder they live in the quiet places of the earth. If events spiral out of control, they still avoid the fall-out.'

Marie eased the faithful Morris Minor to a stop outside the motel. Monique had been watching for her and came out before Marie could reach the gate.

They drove off into bright morning sunshine.

'A lovely country,' said Marie.

'Magnifique!' agreed her passenger.

They had agreed the day before that Christchurch was too far and they would settle for a small city further south. Two hours later they arrived.

'I have some business to attend to first,' Monique announced, leaving the car. 'It shouldn't take long. We'll meet back here in an hour and have a meal somewhere.'

Marie agreed and watched her companion walk off towards the shopping area. It was tempting to follow but she was too experienced a spy to do that without watching her back. She wandered down to the beach for a moment. A number of families were picnicking on the sand but warnings of jellyfish kept most people out of the sea. She strolled up a little path to a headland and then back again. Just as she had suspected. A short, slightly balding man, a little overweight, was keeping an eye on her. Had she followed Monique, he would have followed her. Probably it wasn't so much that Monique had a meeting as that she suspected Marie had. With no assignations arranged, Marie was able to stroll around with perfect equanimity. If it meant that two of the enemy were wasting their time with her, then that was all to the good.

She met Monique by the car as arranged and they selected a restaurant for their meal. Marie decided she would need the bathroom first and left Monique at the table. The Ladies' room nearby, tastefully hidden behind a trellis of artificial shrubbery, was occupied, though, and she had to wait, out of sight of Monique. Immediately she heard whispered voices and peered through to see her balding observer. Her early training had taught her how to concentrate on one strand of noise and obliterate others and this now stood her in good stead.

'She met nobody Madame,' said the man.

'As I thought. Now go. You were a fool to come here. She could re-appear at any second.'

'Very well, Madame. Will you need me at the university?'

'I may. Be there.'

'Yes Madame.'

'Go now.'

He left and Marie, finding the room now free, went in, deciding that the cunning of the mistress was only matched by the stupidity of her servant.


	17. Beware the Ides of March

**Chapter 16 - Beware the Ides of March**

The first flickers of light were shredding the eastern sky when Tug and Angus took off on their dawn patrol. Mindful of the mountains nearby, they gained height speedily. Soon it was possible to discern landmarks. Angus, sitting beside Tug, who was piloting, glanced briefly in the direction of the plateau. He stiffened.

'Someone else in the sky,' he said. 'That looks like a plane.'

'More than one,' assessed Tug but his casual comment soon turned to real concern. 'That's a Mig,' he gasped, a second or so later. 'There's another behind it. They've taken off. Radio Biggles quickly.'

Angus began to send off the signal. Suddenly Tug wrenched the controls over and streams of tracer flashed past them.

'They've seen us,' he grated, unnecessarily. 'Are they answering?'

'Not yet.'

Angus continued to send his signal.

'They are now,' he reported in relief and hastily transmitted his message. Tug banked again but a second Mig had joined the hunt and they flinched as the Gadfly rocked under several hits.

'We're being attacked,' Angus said and gave their position.

'I can't hold her,' Tug cried. 'I'll try to get down on that glacier.'

The Gadfly plunged earthwards, its port engine now on fire, and Angus desperately reported what they were trying to do. The plane missed a jagged peak by a matter of yards and skidded down a slope, sending snow cascading all around it, before sliding across a flatter area and juddering to a halt in a huge drift. The Migs continued on their way; the two men in the Gadfly slumped in their seats; the fire, smothered by the snow, was extinguished and a long and deep silence settled over the sombre scene.

Biggles burst into the mess where the others were in the midst of an early breakfast.

'Scramble,' he cried. 'They're airborne.'

Bertie, in the process of drinking a cup of tea, spluttered and almost choked.

'But, I say, you know,' he protested, jumping to his feet. 'That's three hours ahead of schedule.'

'Nevertheless they've taken off. Angus just radioed through. Either they got wind of us or we've been given the wrong time by an ultra-cautious security. If the latter, they've been too clever by half this time. Are the aircraft ready?' he called to Smyth, who was standing by the planes.

'All set to go, sir,' he called back, a little startled at their hasty approach.

Four Hunters took off rapidly and headed northwest. Fast as they had been, it was ten minutes since Angus had radioed and that meant the Migs had a good start. Biggles hoped the landing on the glacier had gone successfully – the transmissions had ceased.

High in the sky and with a rising sun behind him he had hopes that they would not be seen. The slant of the South Island meant that they would now be hard pressed to intercept. He scanned the sky ahead, looking for the telltale specks that would reveal the Migs. He cursed inwardly, feeling that he had mismanaged the business badly. If the plan was not to shoot down the President, or whoever was flying to Australia, but merely to make a pretence of an attempt to heighten Cold War tension and accelerate the arms race, then it was important that the Migs should not be seen. That aim seemed doomed to failure now.

There they were! Eyes honed by decades of flying experience picked out four dots and vapour trails ahead of him and he groaned aloud at the lead they had. They would certainly not catch them now. Perhaps von Zoyton had received the news at Auckland, though what he could do on his own, outnumbered four to one, he didn't know.

For an hour or more they flew on, gaining slightly but not significantly. Below, the northern waters of the Tasman Sea, merging with those of the Pacific, took on a lighter hue as the sun rose higher. Ahead, a bank of clouds loomed and the Migs made for this. They were soon through but suddenly Biggles blinked. Where there had been four aircraft, now there were only three; one, he realised had peeled off in the cloud. Evidently they had been spotted. He detailed Ginger to intercept.

Now the planes seemed closer; in fact they were coming back. Far below Biggles caught a distant glimpse of a whaler. Of course the attack must appear to come from the north; it would not be logical for it to be launched from New Zealand.

The distance between the two sets of planes decreased rapidly. Flashes from the Migs indicated that they had opened fire, the extreme range showing their inexperience. Biggles fired a warning burst himself, hoping this might persuade them to turn back, then banked towards the sun. They came on, making a dogfight inevitable and causing Biggles to hope that the experience he and the others had gained would outweigh the inevitably slower reactions he now must have.

The Migs swerved to meet them and opened fire again. Biggles anticipated the moment and swung out of the way. Tracer streamed past his wing tip. Before the other plane could adjust, Biggles had fired his own burst, raking the plane as it tried desperately to manoeuvre and watching dispassionately as it spiralled out of control and plunged into the water below. Looking around he noticed a parachute descending and another Mig out of action. Flying alongside the Hunter, he saw Algy give the thumbs up sign. The third Mig had pulled out of the conflict and was heading back north with Bertie in hot pursuit.

'Now for Ginger,' Biggles muttered and swung back to the south. The sight that met his eyes horrified him. Ginger's plane was down but he had managed to bale out. The Mig though was turning towards him and its intentions were all too plain.

'The murdering swine,' Biggles grated and coaxed every bit of speed he could from his Hunter, though it was inevitable that he would be too late. Just as Ginger's fate seemed sealed, though, tracer pierced the air from another direction. A new Hunter had entered the fray and was attacking the Mig. Ginger continued to descend and Biggles noted his position, radioing to the air-sea rescue flying-boat, that ought to be already on its way. He watched the duel before him, fascinated. The two aircraft were locked in a tightening circle, each trying to gain an advantage on the other. For a moment it was stalemate. Biggles wondered if he should take a hand but he didn't want to lose sight of Ginger and continued to circle round above him.

He was just wondering how this would end and was about to order Algy to join in when the Hunter suddenly appeared out of the circle and behind the Mig.

'How the heck did he do that?' wondered Biggles, for, though he had been watching intently, he must have glanced down at Ginger for the crucial second. The Hunter's guns blazed and the Mig went down.

'Von Zoyton!' breathed Biggles. 'That's the old trick he perfected in the war. It nearly did for me in the desert years ago and he's obviously still mastered it. No better time for it to come in useful. Strange,' he mused briefly. 'Von Stalhein now a friend; von Zoyton an ally.'

Ordering Algy forward to see if he could guide the flying-boat in, he turned his attention to Ginger, now plunging into the sea, and noticed with relief that his life jacket had inflated satisfactorily. Von Zoyton came beside him and Biggles gave the thumbs up sign. The German nodded stiffly and gave an ironic smile. With the Migs either shot down or fled, it was now a matter of waiting for the seaplane to arrive. That it was in the vicinity, he ascertained from his radio.

In the event, it was almost half-an-hour before it came into view but, with Biggles marking the spot, it swished down precisely and soon Ginger was being helped aboard, turning to wave at him as he did.

Biggles radioed the seaplane and asked it to try to find the Mig pilot who had baled out, partly from a sense of humanity and partly because the man could be a useful witness against the syndicate.

'You may have opposition,' Bertie said, listening in. 'My one turned tail and beetled off. Poor show! Then its pilot ditched it just by that whaler and waited to be picked up.'

'I'd wondered what they were going to do with the planes after the attack – there's nowhere else to land for miles and they obviously wouldn't head back to New Zealand. The escort would clearly break off the engagement quickly to stay close to the President so, as long as they fled after just a couple of bursts, they'd be all right. It means the Migs disappear without trace. No chance for the Soviets to claim they weren't theirs.'

'The pilots, too, old boy,' Bertie added seriously. 'When that poor blighter splashed down, the whaler opened fire on him. No planes, no pilots, no evidence!'

'The murdering hounds,' growled Biggles. 'Did they know you were around?'

'They must've done. Nothing I could do about it. Couldn't open fire, could I? Might be a pukka Russian whaler; then where would we be? Even if it is full of Pedersen's mates.'

'This makes it crucial that we get to that pilot before the whaler. He's the last one left,' snapped Biggles. He waved urgently at von Zoyton.

'I have been listening,' the German assured him and the three Hunters headed north again, with the seaplane behind them.

When Angus came to, his first conscious act was to try the radio. It was dead but he was not, he realised with a surge of relief and some sluggish movements beside him showed that Tug had survived too.

'How are you?' Angus asked, anxiously.

Tug opened his eyes, bemused for the moment, then becoming aware.

'Thought we were heading for topsides then,' he admitted with a wry smile. 'Looks like we've got away with it again.'

'I've wrenched my neck badly,' Angus informed but otherwise I don't think there's any serious damage done. Anything broken?'

'Don't think so. The brakes were fully applied. We can't have been moving at more than about twenty or thirty when we hit the drift. The floats probably helped, too. Snow's only thick water when all's said and done.'

'We've been lucky. Any ideas about what to do?'

'Nothing we can do except sit and wait. We're not likely to catch fire again with all this snow and it's far too cold to step outside. In fact it's chilling up in here too. Let's hope your final message got through.'

Angus listened carefully.

'That sounds like an aircraft now.'

'Too soon,' grunted Tug but as the noise grew louder, he changed his mind. A blue and white Cessna was coming into land, its skis swishing across the snow towards them, slowing to a halt not far away. Angus and Tug struggled to leave the Gadfly, by no means an easy task with snow caked against the door. Two familiar slim figures ran towards them.

'We meet again,' said Worrals.

'Och, lassie, but you're a sight for sore eyes,' said Angus.

'There's another plane coming in case you can't walk,' Worrals explained, 'but we were already in the air so we came right away.'

'So we haven't been here long,' said Tug.

'It's been about twenty minutes since we picked up your message.'

'Is that all? Then we must have been out for only a few minutes. Thanks.'

'Aye, we're very grateful,' added Angus.

'Glad to return the compliment,' smiled Frecks. 'Makes a change for us to rescue you. I'm sorry to see the end of the Gadfly, though. It's like losing an old friend.'

Once the women had pulled away the snow from the doors, Tug and Angus gingerly struggled out and limped towards the Cessna. Settling the two men in the ski plane, Worrals took off and radioed that all was well.

It didn't take long for the Hunters to find the whaler and it was clear that it had already found the pilot for, as Biggles watched, two shots rang out. Seconds later he was diving on the boat, raking it fore and aft and causing the sailors to rush for cover. Bertie followed him in, firing a few more shots to discourage anyone planning to emerge and von Zoyton followed suit. By the time he had finished Biggles was swinging round again. This was too much for the whaler, which started to move away. Blood in the water showed that the man had been hit and it was a great relief when the seaplane arrived just as a telltale black fin was speeding towards the spot. Ginger deterred it with a shot from his automatic. Other sharks now appeared but the flying-boat crew managed to get the wounded pilot on board before they could get to him; indeed they began to attack the bleeding body of one of their fellows that Ginger had managed to hit.

Biggles made contact with the plane as soon as it took off.

'How is he?' He asked Ginger who came on.

'Still alive but only just. Bullets through the chest, shoulder and leg, I think. We're doing what we can for him but it'll be touch and go.'

'Do we sink the whaler?' asked von Zoyton.

'I'd like to,' Biggles replied grimly, 'but what Bertie said earlier still stands. It looks as if we've managed to avert one international incident; we don't want to start up another. Pity we can't arrest the crew but I don't see how we're going to do that. Let's be getting back.'

Algy joined them after a while and they landed at Auckland an hour or so later, partly to refuel and partly to oversee the progress of the pilot, who would surely be willing to co-operate after the treatment he had received. Biggles arranged with the local police to mount a round-the-clock guard on him and then flew back to Christchurch to find the others awaiting them. It was now mid-afternoon and the gathering included Marie, who had arrived moments before after her long drive.

Once they were seated comfortably in a room at the base, Algy shared some news.

'We were just in time,' he announced. 'I came up with the presidential jet and its escort only a few minutes after leaving you.'

'Did they see you?'

'Very much so. One of the jets detached itself and came alongside me. I waved as he drew closer. He glowered and indicated the radio. I rummaged through the frequencies and picked him up.'

'Gudday,' I greeted in my best New Zealand accent.

'Keep clear Buster,' he said aggressively.

'Give my regards to the president,' I said casually.

'Who said anything about a president?' he choked, taken aback.

'Common knowledge,' I said.

'Where d'ya get that story from?'

'That's for you to find out. We got the timing from the opposition, incidentally. Their intelligence seems to know rather more than ours. Fortunately, there aren't any Russians around to frighten you. Plug your leaks, Buster. Your security's like a sieve.'

'And with that,' Algy concluded, 'I peeled off and came back, I hope with the result that they'll find our syndicate's informant.'

'As long as he thinks you were just there as a precautionary measure with nothing definite to go on.'

'You may be sure I didn't mention the Migs,' Algy confirmed.

'You've had more excitement than we have,' reported Gimlet. 'The raid was a washout. No planes, just a few bewildered workers. No resistance at all. The police drew a blank at the motel; just the motel owner and his wife, who claimed they had no knowledge of what was going on at the back of the property four miles away. The people in the farmhouse also pleaded innocence. Our young couple and all their chiefs left in the night, no-one knows where.'

'Slipped through our fingers, by gad,' groaned Bertie.

'Well we thwarted the grand design,' said Biggles, 'and without serious casualties too. Thanks to you, von Zoyton. You haven't forgotten your old skills, I see.'

The German bowed and gave a little smile.

'Your abilities have similarly endured,' he complimented, formally. 'You were the only man ever to defeat me in the air. It is pleasing to fight with you, for once.'

'I'm glad, too,' Biggles acknowledged. 'That rat would have strafed Ginger but for you. We're very grateful. You're making a habit of arriving in the nick of time.'

'The question now, old boy is where have these bally crooks gone,' said Bertie.

'Maybe they wanted to be off the scene when the balloon went up,' commented Algy, 'so they wouldn't be implicated.'

The phone rang. It was the hospital in Auckland. After emergency surgery a surgeon gave the wounded pilot's chances of survival as fifty-fifty. He hoped the man would be able to talk to Biggles soon.

'The police in Auckland will probably question him but I'll fly up as soon as he can speak,' Biggles decided.

He rang off and turned to the others.

'Meantime we have to find our white devils.' he said. 'But where?'

Marie now joined the discussion.

'Will you need me at the university?' she repeated. 'That's what I overheard in the restaurant.'

'Which university?' queried Biggles. 'There must be more than one.'

'Not many old boy,' said Bertie. 'Just a couple in the South Island according to what I read; plus an agricultural college not far from here.'

'Then a couple of phone calls should tell us all we need to know.'

It was not long before he returned.

'There are conferences going on in the universities in both Christchurch and Dunedin,' he reported, 'but the most hopeful one is the closest: an international conference on the works of the immortal bard – Shakespeare no less. Let's mosey along and peek at the participants. We may find some of them are familiar.'


	18. Academic pursuit

**Chapter 17 - Academic Pursuit**

Nineteenth Century Gothic marked the University of Canterbury campus, a few blocks from the city centre in Christchurch. With police cars outside and uniformed officers guarding the exits, Biggles quickly found the section being used for the Shakespeare Conference and, with Gimlet beside him, was soon chatting to the lady at the registration desk.

'Do you often hold events like this here?' he asked.

'Not often,' she confessed. 'We're usually regarded as being rather off the beaten track to make anything international viable. Fortunately we have some wealthy benefactors from overseas, who have sponsored us.'

'Sir Simon Villiers-Silver wouldn't be one, I suppose,' remarked Gimlet.

'Why, yes. Are you acquainted with Sir Simon?'

'I visited his home in Somerset recently,' Gimlet said smoothly. 'I'll be glad to catch up with him again.'

'Well that's easy enough. For this evening the conference has broken up into group discussions on individual plays over in the English Department. Sir Simon is also there, having a little meeting with his fellow sponsors. I'm sure he won't mind you popping in. He's such a pleasant gentleman.'

'Thank you,' said Gimlet.

'Wonder how alert they'll be,' murmured Biggles as they set off, crossing a quad to the building in question. He noticed a young couple ardently embracing in a dark and private corner but no other signs of habitation. He looked around. There were about a dozen in the party, including the New Zealand police officers, who were with them. 'Better not make it look like an invasion,' he added softly. 'Captain King and I will go ahead just to make sure our people really are all in residence. You follow when you hear my whistle.'

Biggles and Gimlet moved silently up the stairs.

Minutes passed while the others stayed alert, just inside the entrance, waiting for the signal. A little knot of New Zealand police stood at the foot of the stairs with Ginger, whilst Copper, Trapper and Cub lurked silently nearby. Worrals and Frecks were by the front door, both beginning to feel uneasy. Frecks, struck by a sudden thought, gave a little gasp and scurried outside into the cloister-like quad for a moment.

'Just as I thought,' she said, returning. 'They're gone.'

'Who's gone?' Worrals enquired.

'That loving couple in the shadowy corner outside.'

'Hardly surprising,' Worrals commented. 'A peaceful spot transformed into Piccadilly Circus would frighten anyone away.'

'I suppose so,' Frecks agreed, doubtfully, 'but it did just strike me that they might be the precious pair who abducted me in London. And they did keep their faces hidden.'

'Not unusual when you're embracing,' said Worrals, drily, 'but it's been used before as a cover for observation.'

'I have a look, I think,' said Trapper, overhearing.

He went out. Seconds later all eyes turned to the staircase at the noise of many people descending. The senior policeman was clearly surprised but two uniformed officers accompanying the group promptly addressed him.

'Inspector Bigglesworth thought we should get all these people away from any possible danger,' said the first.

The inspector nodded and stepped back. Chattering freely, a host of academics walked through and outside. The sudden cascade of faces was bewildering but, in the midst of the flurry, Worrals thought she caught a glimpse of one she had seen before. Copper was beside her and she clutched his arm.

'Da Silva,' she hissed. 'I'm sure that was da Silva among that crowd.'

'Can't be,' Copper assured her. ''e'll still be upstairs with Biggles and Gimlet.'

Trapper returned.

'Frecks was right,' he announced. 'There's an electric wire running to that corner from this building and a bell-push at the end of it.'

'Then whoever was there could've given warning of our approach,' said Worrals. 'Come on Frecks, we've got to keep that little crowd under observation.'

'And I'd better check on the skipper,' decided Copper, grimly. He strode towards the stairs. Ginger joined him as Worrals and Frecks rushed out across the quad.

Most of the people who had come through were standing around on the pavement, continuing their conversations but a small group had detached itself from them and could be seen walking purposefully away. The policemen, who had accompanied them downstairs, were getting into a police car. They were about to drive away when Worrals ran up.

'That's the group we're after,' she cried, indicating the retreating figures.

'Are you sure, Miss?' the driver replied.

'I've seen one of them before. He's da Silva, one of the head men.'

'Very well, we'll check them out.'

'We'll come with you, then I can identify him.'

'Sorry Miss, too dangerous.' With Worrals fuming, the car sped away.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Biggles and Gimlet took a moment or two to locate the room where the meeting was taking place, ensuring that they were not about to burst in on one of the innocent discussions. A murmur of voices reached them. Knocking gently on the door, Biggles walked in.

A table dominated the room. Around it were seated five men and a woman. Biggles had met none of them but instantly recognised Sidlington from Ginger's description and the others from the photographs he had seen.

'Good evening,' he said. 'I'm sorry to intrude. I am Air Inspector Bigglesworth and this is Captain King, familiar to one of you, I believe.'

Gimlet smiled at Villiers-Silver, who acknowledged him with a brief nod and stared behind him, as if expecting to see someone else.

'Where is your friend, Captain Ashton?' he asked.

'Freddie? At home in Sussex I expect. Did you think he'd be with me?'

Gimlet noted with satisfaction the expression of exasperation that fleetingly crossed the other's face and wondered what resources had been wasted keeping his honourable and innocent friend under surveillance.

'I have some information, which may be of interest to you,' Biggles continued. 'Several arrests have been made these past few days. Some took place in Somerset, including your chauffeur, Sir Simon, and those now in custody have made a number of interesting statements – enough to implicate you in their activities.'

'I am not responsible for any failings of my chauffeur,' said Sir Simon, stiffly. 'I shall dismiss him from my service as soon as I return.'

'Others have been arrested for activities in and around a house owned by you. They also have visited your home from time to time.'

'Doubtless cronies of my chauffeur,' returned Villiers-Silver unabashed.

'I also have news from the Azores,' Biggles continued. 'I'm sure Mr da Silva will be pleased to know that certain police officers have been arrested, including a Captain Pereira. Just the faint suggestions of a communist link were enough to make Lisbon alert and eager to root out local corruption.'

'Good,' said da Silva, smoothly. 'I never had confidence in the man. He came to my house often and I always suspected his motivation.'

' Then there's Mr Sidlington,' Biggles added, 'who organised a machete welcome for me at his village.'

Sidlington stared unwaveringly at him.

'My dear fellow,' he said, 'what are you talking about? I was expecting you to visit me but you neglected my village. We were most disappointed.'

'You haven't sprung Crazy Jim this time,' Biggles said steadily.

'Crazy Jim!' Sidlington snorted, contemptuously. 'His name bespeaks him. The man's a menace and his brother's not much better.'

'The point is,' Villiers-Silver broke in, 'what do you require of us? We've come to New Zealand for this conference and here we are, having spent an agreeable week admiring the scenery. What a delightful country this is, by the way!'

'And you know nothing of any events today?'

'My dear chap, we've been here at the conference since first thing this morning. If someone's robbed a bank, we have fifty or sixty witnesses to vouch for the fact that it wasn't us.'

'Nevertheless you're still under arrest,' continued Biggles, ignoring the apparently unflappable demeanour of the group.

'On what charge?'

'Sabotage, incitement to violence, murder – there's quite a list.'

'My word!' exclaimed Sidlington, with a faint ironic smile. 'Well, I suppose we'd better accompany you. Is this the local constabulary you've brought with you?'

Biggles turned. Two uniformed police stood behind him.

'You're early,' he said, frowning slightly.

'Sorry sir,' said one. 'There's a problem below.'

Something about his manner alerted Biggles' suspicions.

'Let's see your warrant card,' he said.

'I have it here, sir.'

A gun appeared in his hand.

'You're quite right, Inspector Bigglesworth,' said Villiers-Silver. 'It is time for us to go. You may stay for a while.'

'I think you'll be more comfortable over this side of the room,' added Sidlington. 'Plenty of chairs to sit on. I'm sure your incarceration will not be prolonged.'

Biggles' gun was removed and he was tied hastily to a chair, Gimlet receiving the same treatment. They were clumsily gagged too. Then the others left, locking the door behind them. Furious at being so easily outmanoeuvred, Biggles struggled to free himself. As he did so he heard footsteps and voices outside the door, bubbling up for a moment, then gradually fading away. He was puzzled for a second and then remembered the group discussions that had been taking place. Presumably these had come to an end or, more likely, been terminated by Villiers-Silver on some pretext so that he and his associates could merge with the others and depart without comment. The thought added momentum to his straining wrists.

They had been tied up hastily but, nevertheless, vital minutes passed before Gimlet, utilising all his Commando experience, managed to free himself and Biggles too. Biggles immediately reached for his whistle but, before he could blow it, he heard the voices of Copper and Ginger outside.

'In here,' called Biggles. 'We're locked in.'

'I'll have to get a key from the registrar,' Ginger's voice replied.

'Don't worry about us – what about Villiers-Silver and co.?'

'Aren't they in there with you?'

'Of course not. They went off with a couple of fake policemen.'

''Swelp me, Worrals was right,' Copper gasped, the comment being followed by the sound of footsteps hastily descending the stairs.

'Just shows you how you can under-estimate the enemy,' Biggles sighed ruefully, as he and Gimlet got to their feet.

'Hope that cloth was clean, by gad,' said Gimlet, indicating his discarded gag. 'They can't get far, though, surely,' he added re-assuringly, 'and you couldn't cater for fake policemen being on hand. Pretty cool customers, though. Police all round the building so they simply pick up a crowd and stroll through.'

Footsteps sounded outside the door again and a key turned in the lock. Copper stood there and guided them swiftly out of the building and through to the street. Ginger was waiting in their car and they jumped aboard.

It was a short drive. Less than a minute later they stopped by other vehicles drawn up at the entrance to a huge park. Worrals and Frecks were there too and turned as Biggles rushed up.

'I thought I recognised da Silva,' Worrals reported, 'and told the police. They drove after them but all they did was stop at the head of the group, have a few words, then drive on, while the group turned into this park. So they're in here somewhere, but most of it's too dark to see.'

'Those weren't real police,' Biggles informed them.

'That explains it,' said Worrals.

'Maybe it's as well they didn't let us tag along then,' added Frecks, soberly. 'That could've been the second time I was taken for a ride.'

'Sidlington must've been there too,' Ginger groaned. 'I should have spotted him but I suppose they were all in the middle of the crowd and not easily seen.'

'I only caught a glimpse,' confirmed Worrals.

At that moment another noise became audible: the sound of rotor blades in swift revolution.

'Helicopter,' gasped Biggles and increased his pace but already it was clearly too late. A huge shape lifted into the air. Uniformed figures rushed forward, attempting to close on it, but halted baffled a good fifty yards or so short. There were some lights in the park but where the helicopter had been was now in darkness. Biggles could vaguely make out some trees and a small building beyond as the car headlights strained towards the area.

'Back to the cars,' he snapped. 'We must keep that helicopter in sight.'

'I'll alert all cars to keep a look-out,' said a senior policeman nearby, 'and we'll have one of our own copters up directly.'

'Where did that one come from?'

'Landed here earlier in the day. Said he had engine trouble. Been working on it all the afternoon.'

He rushed back to his car and hastily contacted his headquarters.

'Contingency plan, by gad,' said Gimlet, 'all laid on in case we found out where they were.'

'Fortunately I also have a contingency plan,' murmured Biggles, jumping in his car. 'I thought it might be useful to have someone airborne just in case we needed an eye overhead.'

He spoke rapidly into the radio and Bertie's voice acknowledged. Moments later a searchlight beam swept the sky.

'My heavens, that was quick work,' said Biggles approvingly. 'He can't get far now, surely. That light must catch him soon; he'll be on radar; Algy and Bertie can follow him wherever he goes and there are police cars on the ground, alert to where he lands. It ought to be just a matter of time.'

'Ought to be,' queried Gimlet as they drove off.

'They seem to be one step ahead of us all the time. I'm wondering what other cards they have to play. I'll contact Steeley at the airbase and let him know what's happened. Maybe he can get a plane up as well.'

He looked in his rear-view mirror.

'Where are the others?' he queried. 'They don't seem to be following.'

'Trapper had a hunch,' Gimlet said, enigmatically.

As Biggles had surmised, it didn't take long for the helicopter to be located and pursued. The roving searchlight caught it in its beam within minutes and Algy and Bertie homed in quickly.

'Did you see them at all?' asked Algy, when their quarry moved beyond the searchlight's range.

'Only the pilot,' replied Bertie. 'There are blinds over the other windows, keeping the passengers hidden. Wish these bally clouds would go; we could use some moonlight.'

The other helicopter now tried some evading manoeuvres but these were thwarted by a combination of radar and Algy's night-flying experience. Moreover they enabled a third helicopter, full of police, to catch up and station itself on the other side. In this formation they continued for several minutes, the first aircraft showing no signs of receiving or acknowledging radio signals from either its escort or the ground.

'Flying west,' muttered Algy. 'Hallo, he's going down. Hope they're keeping tabs down below.'

'He's expected too, by Jove,' Bertie exclaimed as the blackness beneath was suddenly punctuated by a circle of coloured lights.

'The police copter's going in first,' Algy informed him, 'in case there are more of Villiers-Silver's men on the ground.'

'Makes sense - only two of us and probably a half-dozen local police. It's their patch too, after all.'

'Couple of police cars not far away, apparently,' Algy continued. 'One behind us and one coming from the opposite direction. With any luck this'll be the grand finale.'

They watched the two other helicopters land, the second quickly following in the first, even though the lights went out as soon as the first one was down. This meant that Algy's descent was delayed until police torches illuminated a safe area for him to settle on. He and Bertie got out and one of the officers approached them.

'Just the pilot aboard,' he reported. He seemed about to say more but at that moment there was the sound of a vehicle starting up nearby and heading off at speed. A constable who had been checking on the road returned quickly.

'Dark van,' he called to them as he ran past. 'I got the number.'

He rushed over to the aircraft. Seconds later he could be vaguely observed in the uncertain light speaking urgently into the radio.

'There aren't any roads going off this one for quite a way,' the first officer told Algy. If that vehicle is part of the getaway plan, our two cars should corner it before long.' He frowned. 'I don't understand how anyone could have got away from that copter so quickly, though. I know we had to land by torchlight, which delayed us slightly, but there were no more lights on the ground. If they have escaped to that vehicle, they must have run blind in the dark without a false step. The pilot says he was alone and landed because he was having more engine trouble. Saw the lights and took a chance, he says. Didn't give a thought to the pair of us accompanying him all the way from Christchurch, apparently.'

'Maybe we got the wrong copter, old boy,' Bertie murmured to Algy as they approached the others. His voice hardened suddenly as they drew nearer. 'No we haven't,' he snapped, his eyes on the stocky figure of the apparently bewildered pilot. 'The last time I saw this particular aviator, his pal pulled a gun on me when I asked to see his licence.'

One of the police cars radioed through soon after. They had found the van quietly parked in a picnic area nearby. There was no sign of its driver or any passengers. Algy strode over to the pilot, now under arrest.

'Murder of an associate and attempted murder of a police officer,' he stated, 'that's what you're faced with. Meanwhile you've helped your bosses to escape scot-free. I'd have a word or two to say about them if I were you, especially where they are now.'

The man glowered at Bertie but said nothing. Algy sighed.

'We'd better tell Biggles,' he decided and he and Bertie returned to their helicopter.

'It looks as if they may have stayed on the ground all the time,' Bertie considered morosely. 'Simply strolled out after everyone else had gone. They must be laughing up their sleeves.'

The huge park was silent now, apart from the occasional outcry of ducks. It was one of these that had alerted Trapper to the possibility that the area might still be inhabited. He was investigating now while Copper, Worrals and Frecks waited in a car nearby. Though on the alert, Worrals was still startled by Trapper's sudden arrival, looming into view without any apparent warning and sliding noiselessly into the front seat, cautioning silence as he did so.

'_Voila_!' he whispered softly a moment later. The main road that ran through the edge of the park was still busy but they noticed a black van pulling up a hundred yards or so in front of them. Out of the darkness six figures emerged as calmly as if they had just completed an evening stroll and climbed into the back. Copper started the engine but a lorry came past before he could pull out and the vehicle had already driven away before they could come up with it. Trapper radioed Biggles as they began the pursuit.

The van turned off the main road and proceeded unhurriedly along grass-lined back streets, drawing up after a few minutes by a small fenced wood. There was a gate leading into this area which would normally be locked, Worrals presumed, but was now open. The six figures, flicking on torches, moved through this gate and into the wood. Copper leapt out to follow but a man and a woman also appeared from the front of the van and both carried guns. Frecks nodded sagely as she saw them.

'Just as I thought,' she grated. 'That's my loving couple.'

The pair was backing towards the gate.

'Don't come any nearer,' warned the man. 'It wouldn't be healthy.'

'What's the point of this?' queried Copper. 'Your little organisation's all washed up. Time to abandon ship.'

Ignoring this advice, the woman turned and dashed through the gate and into the darkness, her torch pecking out the path in front of her.

'Follow us and you'll meet some lead coming the other way,' the man warned and, slamming the gate, rushed after her.

He was as good as his word for Copper, vaulting over, had to dive flat as two bullets whistled past him. From this position, though, he was able to open the gate again, enabling Trapper to come crawling through.

'Watch what you're doing, pal,' Copper warned as Trapper began to move stealthily along the path.

'Unless he sees in darkness, I won't be a target again,' muttered Trapper, accustoming his eyes to the lack of light.

Biggles, meanwhile, was not as far away as he might have been, deciding that there were sufficient forces available to deal with the helicopter whenever it came to rest and electing instead to adopt Trapper's theory. By the time the chase began he had already dropped Gimlet off to join Cub, waiting in a third car by another entrance to the park, and Steeley had arrived overhead in the fourth helicopter to take to the air that evening. Steeley, in fact, was able to follow the progress of the pursuit.

'It looks like that patch of bush has another entrance,' he reported, hovering nearby. He gave quick directions and the two cars immediately diverted accordingly. Worrals, listening in, called out to Copper who, with no more firing from within the wood, returned to the car.

'Hunting in the dark is something Trapper's better at on 'is own,' he confided. 'We'll 'old tight for a bit in case they try to slip back.'

Worrals reported this and they awaited instructions.

Trapper, indeed, was moving at pace along the short bush walk, without giving those ahead of him any inkling of his presence. There was a light at the other entrance and the young man turned warily, gun levelled, to face the way he had come. Trapper reached for his catapult and sent a sharp stone on its way to smash against the other's hand with such force that he dropped the gun. He rubbed his wrist for a crucial second, then, realising that Trapper was almost on him, abandoned the weapon and fled, leaping into the third of three cars drawn up outside, which drove off at pace to Trapper's disgust.

This exit was on a sharp corner and almost immediately he was aware of other cars approaching as first Biggles and Ginger and then Gimlet and Cub skidded by.

'Stay put, Trapper,' Gimlet yelled at him as he swerved past. 'Copper's coming round.'

The first three cars turned into a major road nearby but not all in the same direction so that Biggles found himself on the tail of one car whilst Gimlet followed the other two. Hardly had they disappeared than Copper came screeching up and Trapper jumped aboard.

'Left,' he said immediately as they reached the main road. 'Gimlet may need help.'

'Steeley's keeping an eye open for them from above,' Copper informed him. 'And Algy and Bertie are back to keep tabs on Biggles' progress.'

Gimlet came on the radio.

'Turn right at the lights in the middle of the shopping centre,' he said. 'The red Holden has gone that way. It was caught in traffic so you won't be far behind it. I hope we're really following the right people this time.'

'They're all there,' Trapper confirmed. 'I caught a glimpse of some familiar faces as they drove off – and I would have sensed anyone left in the wood. _Tiens_, but for our eyes in the air they would have fooled us again.'

Copper swerved through the lights at amber and began the chase. Possibly those in front may have thought they had shaken off their pursuers for, within a minute or two, the car came in sight, its sharp increase in speed showing that Copper's vehicle had been recognised. Indeed, approaching traffic lights changing to red suggested that the pursuit was over but the car kept going, unexpectedly sounding a siren which caused the traffic about to cross its path to pause, anticipating one of the emergency services. Unimpeded it swept through the crossroads and carried on. Copper, with no such facility, pounded his horn but this was unsuccessful and he had to skid to a halt as a large lorry pulled across in front of him. By the time the lights had changed the car had vanished.

A mile away Biggles was gaining on the car he was following. It was the one carrying da Silva, Sir Simon and the young couple. That the latter were aboard was quickly evident in a quiet street when the woman's face appeared at the nearside back window and her lover's at the off side. Both dropped objects on the road. Instinctively Biggles swung the wheel, desperate to avoid them, and had just swerved past when two explosions in quick succession flung the car forward, showering the inside with glass. Out of control for a second the vehicle received a glancing blow from a stolid tree and came to a halt on the grassy verge of the pavement.

'Are you all right?' gasped Biggles.

'Gave my head a bump on the windscreen but otherwise I'm okay,' Ginger confirmed. 'Only just recovered from that confounded coconut, too. Nice young lady, isn't she?'

'I expected some sneaky manoeuvres when we got close but I must confess I wasn't prepared for hand grenades. I suppose I should have done bearing in mind what nearly happened to us at the beginning of this affair.'

An anxious Bertie came through from overhead. Thankful that the radio was still working, Biggles re-assured him.

'They're still in sight, old boy,' Bertie added. 'Looks as if it's safer from the air.'

Trapper reported at this moment and Cub came on soon after. Gimlet's quarry had scurried across a level crossing just before the gates closed for a long goods train to trundle through on its way to the port.

'I don't know what shape this car's in now,' Biggles informed them. 'I'll see if it makes it back to the base. That's when all these anxious residents pouring into the street allow me to move. Then I might try flying again. Keep going. Algy and Steeley still have two of the cars in their sights.'

'There must be local drivers on board,' chimed in Steeley from his helicopter. 'My one's doing a tour of the back streets. No chance of catching up with him on the ground.'

In the other aircraft, Bertie was concentrating hard to keep the car Biggles had been pursuing under observation, making comments as he did so those on the ground could continue the pursuit. They were on the edge of the city now.

'I'll need to snatch some more altitude,' commented Algy. 'There are hills ahead.'

'Must be the ones between the city and the port,' said Bertie. 'I say, old boy, do you think they're heading for the harbour?'

'Maybe, though I don't think this is the quickest way.'

The view of the car was reduced to headlights now, sweeping a tiny passage through the dark. Soon Steeley reported that the car he was tracking was moving in the same direction. Bertie snatched a glance behind him.

'I think I can see a third set of headlights on that road,' he noted. 'Looks as if they're all heading for the same destination.'

From the two pursuing cars, now together, came acknowledgement of the directions and an estimate that they were perhaps five to ten minutes behind. The three sets of lights, about a couple of minutes driving apart, continued over the port hills and began their descent.

Biggles came through. A police car was setting off from Lyttelton to try to intercept.

'It'll be a brave officer who attempts that,' voiced Algy. 'It's neck or nothing for this ruthless sextet now. If they're prepared to throw bombs at Biggles, they won't be calmly flagged down by a solitary police car. And Gimlet's group is too far behind to be in time to take a hand.'

The headlights below carried on. Another set became visible, moving away from the port. Bertie watched anxiously as they slowly converged but the police car was still some way off when the third car passed where he judged the turn off must be.

'Not going to Lyttelton,' he radioed. 'They're heading straight on.'

From the ground Gimlet acknowledged this new information, which was also conveyed to the approaching police.

'Don't want them stopping our boys by mistake,' commented Bertie.

Steeley, hovering over the spot, reported that the police car had now turned in pursuit, slightly ahead of Gimlet. Now one trio of lights was being pursued by another.

This continued for some minutes before the first set, now in close order, stopped. There was a small settlement here and Bertie was able to see figures moving swiftly towards the water. Soon afterwards a boat set off into the harbour. The cars dispersed in different directions.

'Quite a fast craft,' Bertie assessed, picking up its outlines from the lights of the harbour opposite. 'Some kind of modern yacht, I should think.'

'Looks as if we should have something on the water to pursue it,' reasoned Algy, 'but we'd better make sure they're not trying the same kind of stunt they pulled in the park. They might be in the boat but equally they might still be in the cars or even on foot, hiding behind a tree again'

'Too true, old boy,' murmured Bertie, watching the yacht's lengthening wake as it progressed towards the sea. 'They must know we're here.'

He listened carefully to the radio for a moment and acknowledged the message.

'Biggles is back at base,' he told Algy, 'debating what sort of plane to fly and lamenting the loss of the Gadfly. They're preparing a fast police launch to chase the yacht but Biggles agrees with us that this might be another decoy, though we can't ignore it in case that's what we're meant to think. Wonder if Gimlet will find anything when he arrives.'

Following the directions from above, Gimlet stopped at the berth where the two policemen from the patrol car were looking around. Copper pulled up beside him and Gimlet came over.

'Take a look, Trapper. See if there are any signs. Cub can go with you, Copper. Carry on for a bit and see if you come across anything. No point in all of us stooging around here.'

With Cub now beside him, Copper drove on slowly. Gimlet and Trapper went over to the two policemen. They had a brief conversation before Trapper studied the area around the tiny wharf. He reached for his torch and stood up.

'There are many footprints here,' he said. 'Two women. Ah,' he added. 'They come up to the berth and then they move off to the right.'

There was a narrow path running through bushes by the water's edge. Trapper followed this carefully for a few minutes until he reached another small wharf. Some boats were tied up against this but one berth was empty.

'The tracks finish here,' he announced.

'A second boat,' Gimlet concluded. 'The police estimate they arrived within a few minutes of the yacht sailing so this other craft must have set off very soon after or they would have heard it. What sort of vessel, I wonder – and where is it? I've lost the lights of the yacht amongst those of the harbour.'

There was a sharp bark nearby. Looking round they saw an elderly man walking his dog, a black Labrador.

'Gudday,' he greeted them cheerily. 'Looking for a boat?'

'I am but I haven't found it,' Gimlet confessed, ruefully. 'Are there any others usually tied up here?'

'There's been an old fishing-boat there for the past few days. That's missing. Can't have been gone long. She was there earlier this evening.'

At Gimlet's urging he gave a very brief description of the vessel.

'You've been very helpful,' Gimlet said at length. 'Thanks very much.'

'She's right,' said the man, whose dog was becoming restless, and the pair continued on their way. Leaving Trapper to see if he could find any other clues, particularly anything that might suggest that the man was mistaken, Gimlet returned to his car and reported what he had found and heard. Before he had finished, Copper drove up.

'Found one of the cars,' he announced. 'The one we chased through Christchurch. Just a little way up the road – abandoned.'

Gimlet added this to his transmission and signed off. Hearing Copper's news the police decided to inspect the car.

'Leave Cub and the ladies here and take Trapper with you,' Gimlet decided, explaining quickly where Trapper could be found. Copper's passengers alighted and Copper drove off, the police car behind him.

'Not much of a role for us in all this,' complained Worrals, as she and Frecks slid into the back seat.

'The activity from now on is likely to be air and sea,' commented Gimlet. 'You may be needed aloft.'

Biggles came through again.

'Algy thinks the old fishing-boat might be the one that was brought over on the ship from the Chatham Islands carrying all the Mig parts,' he said. 'We know it was transported to that makeshift assembly line they had but we never checked on whether it came back or not. Evidently it did. Steeley confirms there was no sign of it during his little visit.'

'That looks like the answer,' Gimlet agreed. 'While the yacht makes all the waves and draws the pursuit, the fishing-boat chugs quietly out to sea, probably without lights. Lots of cloud too. Just what they want.'

'Yes,' Biggles agreed. 'It might take some finding.'


	19. The final hand

**Chapter 18 - The Final Hand**

Some hours later, from the familiar controls of an old Otter amphibian aircraft, a temporary replacement for the Gadfly, Biggles was staring moodily down into the darkness of the ocean, straining to see any sign of the fishing-boat and its passengers. The cloud cover had not relented and the moonless night retained its secrets. He fretted impatiently for the dawn, still nearly half-an-hour away. Once he could see, this long search would be a very different matter. They had, indeed, worked in relays, catnapping wherever they could; currently Algy, Bertie and Steeley were back at base for their needed rest with instructions to start again at first light.

Predictably the police had drawn a blank with the yacht, which had been stopped on its way round Bank's Peninsular. They were now checking the landing stages along the coast to make sure the missing vessel hadn't ducked into one of them. Gimlet's team was in a fast patrol boat trying, like Biggles, to find something to pursue and Gimlet was hoping that they might be on a trail, though all Trapper's expertise was of no use to him in this situation. Worrals and Frecks were also aloft in an Otter, leaving Angus and Tug, still recovering from their glacier landing the previous day, and Marie to monitor events from the base. It was Angus whose voice brought Biggles out of his brooding thoughts.

'Unidentified aircraft approaching from the east,' he reported. 'Must have come from the Chatham Islands – there's no other land in that direction.'

'That means it's probably an amphibian,' assessed Biggles quickly. 'I wonder . . .'

'It hasn't responded to signals so it's probably up to no good,' Angus added, giving the position and course of the mysterious plane as he did so.

'Better give Algy and Bertie a call,' Biggles decided. 'Tell them the position and ask them to join us. Steeley too if he can find a plane. We might as well all be in at the death.'

Angus acknowledged and signed off. Biggles glanced at Ginger.

'What do you make of that?' he queried.

'Summoned by our friends below, you think.'

'Makes sense. They couldn't have got far in that old fishing-boat.'

'They may not realise we know about it. They couldn't have anticipated Trapper's tracking skills.'

'A day in a boat is an hour in a plane,' Biggles pointed out. 'I thought they might have some plan for speeding up proceedings. Let's not get too close to that aircraft's flight path. We don't want to scare him away. He may lead us right to them. From what Angus said, he should be here in a quarter of an hour.'

'What if they've seen our lights?'

'What else can they do? If they don't bring the plane down, then they're stuck on the ship, waiting for us to round them up at sunrise.'

He contacted Gimlet and Worrals with the news and settled down to wait. Angus came through again.

'Yon's a sea-plane, lifted from the Chathams,' he announced. 'It's been dawn over there for a little while now and they've just missed it. Incidentally there's a second unidentified aircraft heading your way. Looks like you might need the reinforcements.'

The first flakes of light were beginning to ease the darkness when Biggles first became aware of the new plane's approach, a sudden flicking of lights in the distance.

'That's Morse,' he said quickly. 'He's signalling the ship.'

Answering lights suddenly flashed from the black ocean beneath. They stayed on to reveal the position of the vessel and the aircraft began its descent towards it. Simultaneously Biggles noticed a sudden spasm of flashes from the rear of the fishing-boat.

'Looks like they're firing at someone,' he said, puzzled. 'Yes, there's a light on the sea moving towards them. It must be Gimlet.'

'He's done well to get so close,' Ginger observed.

'Very well, though it's a coastguard vessel he's on so it's sure to have radar. As you can imagine the coastguards took a dim view of a ship without lights wandering off into the ocean.'

Biggles now concentrated on landing his plane in front of the other aircraft to prevent it taking off. As he did so the Otter shuddered suddenly as something ripped through it. Instinctively he banked in a steep turn and watched a shower of tracer pursue the path he had been flying.

'She's still responding,' he reported, noting the dark shape of the aircraft that had attacked them pulling out of its dive and beginning its ascent to make another attempt. 'I deserve to be shot. Angus warned us about this other plane and for a crucial moment I forgot it. Thank goodness he fired too soon.'

'Let's hope Worrals keeps clear,' observed Ginger, tensely.

'No she isn't.' grated Biggles. 'Now she's going down.'

It was clear that the alien aircraft had spotted her for it shifted its attention from Biggles to Worrals and prepared to attack her. Biggles turned in their direction but there was nothing he could do but watch. He and Ginger sighed with relief when, at the instant when experience told them the plane must open fire, Worrals also banked violently causing the tracer to fly harmlessly by. In fact, for a second, it seemed the aircraft was firing on its own ship, for many of the shells came close to both it and the seaplane, which was coming to a halt alongside.

'Nice work,' Biggles said approvingly, 'but this can't go on indefinitely. We'll be sitting ducks once we're on the water but if we don't go down they'll get away.'

'He nearly hit his own people that time, thanks to Worrals' nifty flying.'

'That's an idea. If we head down straight for the boat he might hesitate to fire in case he hits them and not us.'

Every second the sky was lightening and he was able now to recognise their adversary.

'So,' he said with a whistle, 'there was a fifth Mig after all. Steeley thought there might be. I wonder where on earth they kept that.'

Once more he descended and the fighter swung round to attack, despite Worrals flying daringly close to it in an effort to distract him. There was another burst of tracer but again she had anticipated the moment and avoided being hit.

'She's all Raymond said she was,' Biggles pronounced admiringly, homing in on the scene below. The fishing-boat and Gimlet's launch were still exchanging fire but the seaplane was now alongside and Biggles could see figures climbing aboard. If he was to stop it taking off he must land on this descent, he decided grimly and plunged directly towards the fishing boat, the fighter on his tail.

As he had anticipated the other pilot was clearly uncertain what to do, knowing that, even if he did hit Biggles, he might hit his own people at the same time and thus achieve exactly what he was trying to prevent. Snatching a quick glance below Biggles noted that Gimlet was now manoeuvring his launch around the fishing-boat, keeping on the seaplane side of it but still needing to give it a wide berth to avoid the rapid fire the other vessel was maintaining.

The jet now changed tactics, as Biggles had feared it might, swooping past him so that it could attack from the side as he came in to land. Now there was no longer a reason for the Mig to hold his fire and Biggles and Ginger braced themselves for the impact of the bullets that must now come. Biggles levelled out about a hundred feet above the water as the fighter turned towards him. He banked again, fully expecting to be hit or, at best, see the tracer sweeping past nearby. In fact he saw neither and pulling round noticed smoke coming from the fighter that had itself been attacked and was struggling to take evasive action. A Hunter had come suddenly upon the scene. The radio crackled into life.

'Tally-ho!' called a voice. 'You concentrate on the seaplane chaps. I'll deal with this blighter.'

'Bertie!' Biggles cried.

'Algy thought the extra plane might be riding shotgun, if you see what I mean, so we ought to be prepared.'

'Great work,' said Biggles and began once more to try to block the seaplane's progress, though he feared that he would be too late and Gimlet, too, would not be able to complete his manoeuvre in time.

Ginger had his binoculars out.

'That's Sidlington,' he announced as a final figure stepped aboard the plane. Its doors closed and it began to move forward. Biggles landed his aircraft and surged towards its projected path in a desperate attempt to intercept. Fortunately Gimlet, observing this, had changed course to give him a clear passage but, even so, Biggles realised, with a groan, that he would be too late. At this moment he heard the urgent tones of Algy's voice on the radio.

'Keep clear, Biggles. There's a . . .'

But the final words were lost in a huge explosion that rocked the Otter and all but capsized it. A cascade of objects, some heavy, hailed against the aircraft, one piercing a hole in its side, and Biggles, desperately sought to keep the plane in one piece, as it heaved out of control under the onslaught of some hefty waves. At last the rocking eased and he was able to bring the machine to a standstill.

His first thought was that this had been some device of the enemy and he looked to see if the seaplane was airborne yet. Surprisingly he couldn't see it. Ginger tapped him on the shoulder and he turned round. What he saw was a mass of debris including a torn off wing. Not far away there was another disruption and he was in time to witness the final moments of the Mig, plunging into the sea with Bertie completing a victory salute above it. Nearby Gimlet's boat was all but swamped but he noticed Copper and Trapper baling furiously and Gimlet, breaking off from the same task to give him a reassuring gesture. Miraculously the fishing-boat had survived, now an abandoned craft rocking uncertainly on the settling waves.

'What in the name of glory was that?' he breathed. 'Did they try something that backfired?'

Algy came through again.

'We're all right,' Biggles assured him, 'though the plane may be damaged. I'll stay on the water on the way back just to be sure. What was it?'

'A torpedo. I just caught sight of its path before it struck. Thank heavens you weren't closer.'

Gimlet, having restored order on his launch, brought it alongside.

'Now all the fun's over we might have a look over that fishing-boat,' he suggested, 'but, since that pilot Bertie shot down baled out, we'd better go and pick him up first and check if there are any other survivors.'

'I'd like to know where that infernal submarine has gone,' said Biggles grimly. 'It looks as if we weren't the target but, having made one hit, he might fancy an encore.'

'He'd be a fool to do that with all these planes about,' Gimlet asserted. 'It wouldn't take long to get a bomber out here with some depth charges. We might have one already for all he knows.'

Biggles nodded and, when Gimlet returned about ten minutes later, clambered on to the launch, leaving Ginger on board. In the interim, Algy reported that he thought he could see an oil trail, probably the submarine's, moving away from them, so there seemed to be no more immediate danger from that source.

A few moments later they were alongside the fishing-boat.

'If she's still shipshape, we might take her back to port,' Gimlet reasoned, jumping aboard. 'Might even be a spot of salvage, though I suppose there'd be no-one to pay it.'

Biggles and Cub came with him, leaving Copper and Trapper with the rescued airman, who had managed to eject despite having a bullet wound in the thigh, which they were bandaging.

'Not that you deserve it,' commented Copper. 'The Skipper wasn't at all 'appy when 'e recognised you. Tried to give 'im and Lord Lissie their chips I 'ear. I think 'e'll be 'aving a word or two abaht that when 'e returns from the boat.'

'I'm just the pilot,' the man protested. 'It was the others who were causing the trouble.'

'Well you didn't do anything to stop it by all accounts.'

'How could I? I'd have been shot.'

'And whose bright idea was the submarine?'

'I don't know,' the man said wearily. 'I thought it must be on your side.'

He had been lying on a makeshift stretcher during this exchange but sat up suddenly as if a thought had just struck him. When he saw the fishing boat close by, his eyes suddenly grew large with terror and he clutched at Copper's arm.

'Get away from here,' he cried desperately. 'Start the engines, full speed. Get away, get away.'

'Why?' asked Copper but the man had fainted.

'This does not look good,' murmured Trapper. 'I think that boat may not be so safe.'

Without hesitation Copper leapt on board the fishing-boat. Biggles and Gimlet were in the wheelhouse and Cub was about to descend into the cabin below.

'Seems all right,' Biggles was saying. 'No reason why you shouldn't make port as far as I can see.'

'Watch it, Skipper,' Copper called urgently. 'That airman's in a blue funk being so close to this thing. It might be safer if we look at it from afar.'

'He thinks there's some danger does he?' said Gimlet, unperturbed. 'What kind, I wonder.'

Cub, halfway down the ladder, paused.

'That's funny,' he said. 'I wasn't aware of a noise down here but I'm sure something just stopped.'

'A clock perhaps,' said Biggles. 'I think Copper's right. Let's get back to the launch. I was on a deserted submarine like this once and only realised it was a trap in the nick of time.'

They returned hurriedly. Trapper had already started the engines and, as soon as they were all aboard, the vessel began to head back towards the plane. They were still less than a hundred yards away when the boat they had left seemed to erupt behind them and a huge explosion rent the air.

'That was a close run thing,' observed Gimlet, calmly, watching the wreckage of the ship sinking into the ocean. 'It doesn't look as if it will make port after all. By thunder, we were half-asleep there. Maybe I should be grateful to our prisoner now. In a peculiar sort of way he could be said to have made amends for his earlier conduct at the start of this affair. Concern for his own skin, of course, but the effect's the same.'

'What you might call a sting in the tail,' said Biggles, covering his thumping heart with an apt metaphor. 'I wonder if that was meant for us or if the intention was simply to scuttle her to obliterate any evidence.'

'Perhaps our friend here will enlighten us, once he's awake again,' Gimlet considered. 'It's academic anyway at this stage of things. Incidentally, what are you going to do about that submarine?'

'I'm not sure it would be a good idea to do anything about it,' Biggles said slowly. 'There isn't much we can do apart from hunting it down and that could spark off an international incident and achieve the very thing we've been trying to stop. I presume they all boarded that aircraft.'

'Yes,' confirmed Gimlet. 'I was watching through binoculars. There was just enough light to recognise Villiers-Silver and the rest. They've played their final card, I think.'

'In that case,' said Biggles heavily, 'let's be getting back. We've been on the go for twenty-four hours now and I, for one, could use some sleep.'

It was still winter in England when they returned and the hot coffee provided in the briefing room Raymond had chosen for their meeting was very welcome. The Air Police and their associates, Gimlet and his team, Worrals, Frecks and Steeley were all there, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere as Biggles made his report.

'I certainly needed the reinforcements,' he admitted, at the end. 'Everyone played a vital role at one time or another. I thought we might get in each other's way at first but in the event the team was just the right size.'

'Thanks for the excitement,' chipped in Worrals. 'I'll embrace my mundane life with more ardour now I've had the chance to recall all the hairy moments the alternative has to offer.'

'At least you return with new skills,' smiled Biggles. 'You and Frecks will be able to get jobs as telephonists any time now.'

'Thanks a lot,' said Frecks, ironically.

There was some laughter.

'Do we know how much the Russians were aware of?' queried Steeley, returning to business.

'We have some idea,' said the Air Commodore. 'Major Charles of Intelligence has been taking a keen interest in these proceedings and he may well have seen to it that the requisite information reached his Soviet counterparts. Doubtless they would have found this unofficial deployment of five of their aircraft of some interest.'

'They also seem to have known about the rendezvous,' commented Biggles.

'Quite possibly,' agreed Raymond. 'One agent on the whaler could have provided that. The sailors may have been genuine, incidentally, believing that they were taking part in a bona fide secret mission.' He smiled slightly. 'We've had no official complaints about you strafing their ship, though.'

Biggles breathed deeply.

'We were on the point of capturing them all,' he pointed out. 'Even if they had taken off, with the fighters we had, we'd have forced them down again. They would all have stood trial.'

'Oh quite,' said Raymond. 'We can't possibly condone this ruthless attack on the high seas. On the other hand these were people responsible for misery and death in the world and trying to increase the suffering, not to mention putting us all on the edge of a Third World War. Had there been a trial it would have been a difficult and embarrassing affair and keeping the proceedings out of the press would have been well nigh impossible. The last thing we wanted in this case was publicity. In that respect it may have worked out better as it is. Meantime we've been finding out all kinds of information from our prisoners both here and in New Zealand, allowing us to piece together more of the jigsaw. It's all but complete now. They'll be tried on individual charges, which shouldn't let any cats too far out of the bag.'

'And did our people have any idea about these escape plans?' asked Gimlet.

'Well the New Zealand security service was intercepting their signals. And thanks to Miss Worralson photocopying their codes without them being aware of it, we knew exactly what they were saying to each other.'

'Another jolly old listening post, by Jove,' exclaimed Bertie.

Biggles eyes narrowed.

'I suppose it was a Russian submarine that fired that torpedo,' he probed, suspiciously.

'I know no more than I've told you. Anything else would be speculation. We're putting the wraps over this entire affair. It'll probably be the twenty-first century before they're taken off again.'

He stood up.

'Fortunately you won't have to wait that long for lunch,' he added whimsically. 'It's all laid out for you in the next room. I have to farewell you all now – I have an appointment in a few minutes time. But thank you all for a really splendid show.'

He left and the others, chatting convivially, moved towards the awaiting food and the final act of their combined operation.


End file.
